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WITH   GARLANDS   GREEN 


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WITH      -^^  -^ 
GARLANDS   GREEN 

BY 
ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON 


^ 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED 

TEDE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 

MLCCCCXV 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
Abba  Goold  Woolson, 

& 


TO  C.  M.  F. 

I  call  to  thee,  dear  comrade,  as  I  pass 

With  garlands  green,  to  deck,  as  in  our  youth. 
The  ancient  shrines  of  Honor,  Love,  and  Truth. 

Before  their  altars,  in  untrodden  grass, 

We  kneel  together;  turning  then  to  greet 
The  flame  of  Poesy,  whose  untended  fire 
Still  bums,  to  meet  the  soul's  unquenched  desire. 

Nor  these  the  only  paths  to  claim  our  feet: 
For  thou  wilt  lead  where  nature's  beauty,  hid 

In  sylvan  solitudes,  is  known  to  thee. 

Of  tree  and  fern  and  sailing  cloudlet  bom. 

If  thou  be  with  me,  I  go  companied 

With  Grace  and  Gaiety,  and  a  spirit  free 

And  buoyant,  as  the  happy  winds  of  mom. 


357436 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  New  Year 3 

A  Summer's  Day 6 

Good  Night 8 

Maid  Marian 10 

Chestnut  Woods 12 

To  A  Pansy 14 

Sans  Souci 16 

Over  the  Hills 18 

Lake  Winnepesaukee  in  October 20 

The  Merrimac  at  Haverhill 22 

On  a  Cameo  of  Ceres      25 

Sonnet 26 

Edith      27 

Spring  Violets 29 

The  Lost  Heart 30 

To  A  Sensitive  Friend 31 

Violet  Eyes 35 

Why  Love  is  Blind 38 

In  the  Fields 41 

Carpe  Diem 43 

My  Ship,  the  Algalore 46 

Our  Last  Croquet 49 

A  Winter  Dream  of  Princeton 52 

Rest 54 

The  Hero      56 

Pro  Patria 58 

Our  Buried  Soldier      59 

Nightfall 61 

vii 


PAGE 

The  Home  of  Charlotte  Bronte 62 

All  through  the  Night 64 

Over  the  Way 66 

Hist,  Howlixg  Winds 68 

Falling  Le.\ves 69 

In  Ruins 71 

To  MY  Bird  in  the  South 73 

My  Josie 75 

The  Mid-Day  Moon 78 

Early  Autumn 80 

Late  Autuivin 82 

Her  Home 83 

Mistress  ]\La.ry 85 

Vanity  Fair      87 

Renunciation 89 

To  A  Venerable  Teacher 91 

On  Leaving  the  Villa  Bel%^dere 93 

An  Answer 95 

Remembrance 97 

The  Birds  and  I 98 

Without  and  Within 100 

A  Lesson  from  the  Stabs 101 

In  the  Grave 102 

A  WoiL\N's  Love 103 

Chloris 105 

Sonnet 107 

Idle  Nan 108 

Castanets      110 

The  Princess 112 

By  Right  Dfvtne 113 

MicKiE  Brown 115 

Prince  Jamie 116 

All  for  Love 118 

viii 


PAGE 

To  A  Swallow,  Flying  Seaward 120 

The  Harvest  of  Life 121 

The  Departing  Year 123 

Memories  of  Northern  Spain 125 

Thoughts  in  a  Library 129 

The  Purpose  of  Life 138 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS 

The  Centennial  Year  of  Portland,  Maine  141 

The  City  of  Concord,  New  Hampshire     .    .  156 
Dedication     of     the      Fowler      Memorial 

Library  Building 169 

The  Mission  of  the  Modern  Church    ...  182 

Prince  Henry,  the  Navigator,  of  Portugal  190 


WITH   GARLANDS   GREEN 


THE  NEW  YEAR 

I  HEAR  you,  blithe  New  Year,  ring  out  your  laughter 

And  promises  so  sweet! 
I  see  the  circling  months  that  follow  after, 

Arm-linked,  with  waltzing  feet. 

Before  my  door  I  stand,  to  give  you  greeting. 

As  swift  you  speed  along. 
And  hear  afar  the  echoes  still  repeating 

Your  thrills  of  jocund  song. 

White  are  the  flying  garlands  that  enwreathe  you. 

Wove  of  the  gleaming  snow. 
And  white  the  sloping  fields  that  stretch  beneath  you, 

Mocking  the  sunset-glow. 

You  shout  with  glee,  like  sportive  children  flinging 

Wild  roses  in  their  play; 
And  sweet  your  laughter  sounds,  like  bells  a-ringing 

At  bridals  far  away. 

I  sat  bemoaning  that  the  year  was  waning. 

The  Old  Year,  true  and  tried; 
But  at  your  voice  I  hush  my  sad  complaining 

To  win  you  to  my  side. 

3 


Ah!  happy  cherubs,  I  must  trust' your  smiling, 

Your  innocent,  glad  eyes ! 
Though  well  I  guess  what  power  of  fond  beguiling 

In  their  enticement  lies. 

And  so  I  call  across  the  buried  clovers, 

Where  dance  your  restless  feet. 
And  cry  —  Good  speed,  my  merry  troop  of  rovers! 

Your  promises  are  sweet! 

The  snow-drifts  shine  before  me  in  the  valleys 

Where  you  say  Spring  shall  be; 
And  straight  I  picture  blooming  orchard-alleys. 

With  birds  on  every  tree. 

Though  all  the  night  midwinter's  moon  is  beaming. 

In  cold,  resplendent  skies. 
Beneath  full  boughs  that  glimmer  in  my  dreaming 

June's  leafy  shadow  lies; 

And  fancy  sets  the  drowsy  bees  to  humming 

Where  lilacs  flush  and  sway; 
Forgetting,  none  the  less,  that  their  swift  coming 

Must  speed  a  chiller  day. 

O,  youngest  child  of  Time,  no  hint  of  sorrow 

Clouds  your  prophetic  face ! 
And  yet  I  know  each  radiant  to-morrow 

Will  lack  a  present  grace. 
4 


In  life,  each  spring-time  grows  less  fresh  and  tender. 

Each  summer  less  divine; 
I  reap  the  harvests,  but  they  fail  to  render 

The  fruits  that  once  were  mine. 

Oh,  give  me  back  the  loves  your  race  have  squandered, 

Those  giddy,  spendthrift  years! 
The  sunlit  paths  wherein  my  feet  have  wandered, 

Youth's  eagerness  and  tears; 

And  keep  the  strange,  new  gifts  with  which  you  cheat 
me. 

Luring  my  wistful  gaze! 
From  out  the  past  you  may  not  bring  to  greet  me. 

The  friends  of  other  days ! 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY 

Black  bees  on  the  clover-heads  drowsily  clinging, 
Where  tall,  feathered  grasses  and  buttercups  sway; 

And  all  through  the  fields  a  white  sprinkle  of  daisies, 
Open-eyed  at  the  setting  of  day. 

Oh  the  heaps  of  sweet  roses,  sweet  cinnamon  roses, 
In  great  crimson  thickets  that  cover  the  wall! 

And  flocks  of  bright  butterflies  giddy  to  see  them. 
And  a  sunny  blue  sky  over  all. 

Trailing  boughs  of  the  elms  drooping  over  the  hedges. 
Where  spiders  their  glimmering  laces  have  spun; 

And  breezes  that  bend  the  light  tops  of  the  willows 
And  down  through  the  meadow-grass  run. 

Silver-brown  little  birds  sitting  close  in  the  branches. 
And  yellow  wings  flashing  from  hillock  to  tree. 

And  wide-wheeling  swallows  that  dip  to  the  marshes. 
And  bobolinks  crazy  with  glee;  — 

So  crazy,  they  soar  through  the  glow  of  the  sunset 
And  warble  their  merriest  notes  as  they  fly. 

Nor  heed  how  the  moths  hover  low  in  the  hollows 
And  the  dew  gathers  soft  in  the  sky. 


Then  a  round  beaming  moon  o*er  the  blossomed  hill 
coming, 

Making  paler  the  fields  and  the  shadows  more  deep; 
And  through  the  wide  meadows  a  murmm-ous  humming 

Of  insects  too  happy  to  sleep. 

Enchanted  I  sit  on  the  bank  by  the  willow 
And  hum  the  last  snatch  of  a  rollicking  tune; 

And  since  all  this  loveliness  cannot  be  Heaven, 
I  know  in  my  heart  it  is  June. 


GOOD  NIGHT 

0  SWEET,  my  Love,  the  hour  is  late; 
The  moon  goes  down  in  silver  state 
As  here  alone  I  watch  and  wait; 

Though  far  from  thee,  my  lips  repeat 

In  whispers  low  —  Good  night,  my  Sweet ! 

The  house  is  still;  but  o'er  the  gloom 
Of  starHt  gardens  faint  with  bloom 

1  lean  from  out  my  darkened  room; 
And  only  hear  the  roaming  breeze 
Move  softly  in  the  lilac  trees. 

Somewhere,  beneath  these  gracious  skies, 
My  bonny  Love  a-dreaming  hes, 
With  slumber  brooding  in  her  eyes; 
Go  seek  her,  happy  wind  so  free. 
And  kiss  her  folded  hands  for  me  I 

Across  this  dome  of  silent  air 

On  tides  of  floating  ether  bear. 

To  where  she  sleeps,  my  whispered  prayer :  — 
The  day  has  brought  the  night  forlorn, 
God  keep  thee,  little  Love,  till  dawn! 
8 


While  life  is  dear,  and  love  is  best, 
And  young  moons  drop  adown  the  west. 
My  lone  heart,  turning  to  its  rest, 

Beneath  the  stars  shall  whisper  clear  — 

Good  night,  my  Sweet !  though  none  may  hear. 


MAID  MARIAN 

Not  she  who  wore  the  kirtle  green 

In  merry  England's  famous  wood, 
The  happy-hearted  bandit-queen, 

Maid  Marian  of  Robin  Hood. 
My  darhng  bears  her  gentle  name 

In  lands  unknown  to  ballad  fame; 
No  bugle  winds,  nor  hunter  calls. 

Where  tower  her  father's  palace-halls. 

All  day  she  trails  her  silken  skirt 

Of  Lincoln  green  o'er  marble  floors; 
And  trembles  if  the  breezes  flirt 

Rose-petals  'gainst  the  bolted  doors : 
Where  oft  her  dainty  feet  must  cross 

Lie  fleecy  carpets,  soft  as  moss; 
And  carven  ceilings  proudly  spread 

Their  snowy  garlands  o'er  her  head. 

Maid  Marian,  at  ease  reclined. 

Cares  naught  for  forest-rangers  bold: 

One  dream  is  dearer  to  her  mind 
Than  all  the  simple  Rhymers  told. 

For  me,  I  swear,  whene'er  the  shine 
Of  those  soft  eyes  enkindles  mine, 
10 


To  shield  her  close,  come  weal  or  woe, 
From  every  breath  the  winds  may  blow. 

My  mother,  when  I  bring  her  home, 

Will  ask  me  what  my  Love  can  do; 
If  she  can  spin  the  flax  alone. 

Or  help  her  maids  to  bake  and  brew: 
And  when  with  idle,  lily  hands 

The  Uttle  sprite  before  her  stands. 
Oh  tell  me,  tell  me  what  to  say 

To  charm  my  mother's  scorn  away! 

To  say?    "\Miat  timid  words  of  mine 

Prevail  as  do  the  maiden's  eyes? 
What  answer  could  my  thought  design 

To  match  her  lips,  for  sweet  replies? 
No  heart,  though  steeled  to  pretty  wiles, 

Can  brave  the  beauty  of  her  smiles; 
And  so,  with  winning  graces  drest, 

My  Love  shall  plead  her  cause  the  best. 


11 


CHESTNUT  WOODS 

Dark  linden  groves  are  fair  to  see, 
And  elms  that  fringe  a  sunny  lea; 
But  chestnut  woods  are  woods  for  me ! 

When  suns  like  these  fade  bush  and  fern, 
To  twinkling  gold  the  poplars  turn. 
And  flaming  far  the  maples  burn. 

Along  the  river's  limpid  flow 
Bright  leafy  margins  doubly  glow, 
Reflected  in  the  depths  below. 

But  braver  boughs  the  frost  defy. 

Where  chestnut  woods  swing  wide  and  high 

Their  tufted  green  against  the  sky. 

At  noon  beneath  their  shades  I  stray. 
And  note  the  sunbeams  glint  and  play. 
Forgetful  of  the  year's  decay. 

Dry  floors  of  moss  my  footsteps  drown. 
Where  soft  the  spiky  globes  drop  down 
And  rattle  out  their  nuts  so  brown. 
12 


Lithe  squirrels  watch  the  falling  burrs 
From  roadside  walls;  through  clustered  firs 
Al  startled  partridge  slowly  whirrs. 

The  dells  are  ht  with  asters  pale; 
Light,  silvery  seeds  of  thistles  sail 
Across  the  splendors  of  the  vale. 

Though  maples  there  are  flushing  red, 
And  sumachs  all  their  crimsons  spread, 
I  know  the  summer  has  not  fled. 

For  still  these  woods  proclaim  her  queen. 
Where  chestnut  branches,  full  and  green. 
Lift  to  the  sun  their  glossy  sheen. 

When  they  put  on  their  russet  gold. 
My  heart  shall  ovsti  the  year  is  old, 
And  turn  to  welcome  frost  and  cold. 


13 


TO  A  PANSY 

Pressed  smoothly  in  these  printed  leaves, 

O  faded  flower  of  years  agone, 
Thou  knowest  naught  of  misty  eves 

Or  thrilling  light  of  morn! 

The  mould  where  once  thy  beauty  grew 
Has  nourished  many  a  later  flower; 

And  skies  still  widen,  clear  and  blue, 
Above  that  garden-bower. 

But  thou,  alone  of  all  thy  race, 
Hast  felt  no  touch  of  chill  decay. 

And  wearest  an  immortal  grace 
While  summers  glide  away. 

Where  dew-drops  trembled,  soft  and  bright, 
A  tear  now  falls  from  saddened  eyes; 

And  kisses  burn  where  beams  of  light 
Smote  fierce  from  noonday  skies. 

Not  roses  red  that  ope  to-day. 

Fresh  blowing  when  the  winds  are  free, 
Nor  tangled  lilies,  wet  with  spray, 

Can  win  my  heart  from  thee ! 
14 


For  one  whose  feet  no  longer  tread 
Through  leafy  ways  in  gardens  fair 

Once  paused,  and  bent  her  lovely  head 
Above  thy  beauty  rare; 

And  praised  thy  tissues  finely  wove, 
In  that  dear  voice  that  nevermore 

The  winds  may  bear  me,  though  I  rove 
By  plain  and  sea-girt  shore. 

Forever  dark  with  velvet  glooms. 
And  golden-hearted  as  the  dawn, 

I  still  shall  love  thee  when  the  blooms 
Of  coming  years  are  gone! 


15 


SANS  SOUCI 

If  I  and  my  Laurie  had  nothing  to  do, 

If   his   store   were  locked   up,    and   his   writing  were 

through, 
And  the  house,  from  the  door  to  the  garret,  were  clean. 
And  the  last  ruffle  stitched  on  that  sewing  machine, 
If  all  care  could  be  dropped  for  a  day,  do  you  know 
Where  Laurie  and  I  in  a  jiffy  would  go? 

There's  a  field  where  the  grasses  are  high  as  your  knees. 
And  whiteweed  and  buttercups  rock  in  the  breeze; 
And  under  low  branches  a  wall  straggles  round, 
With  blackberry  vines  overlaced  to  the  ground; 
And  there  we  would  sit,  by  the  rivulet's  brink. 
Gazing  out  over  hillocks  —  to  what,  do  you  think? 

To  a  great  bank  of  roses,  so  wide  and  so  high 
That  they  fill  the  horizon  and  toss  on  the  sky; 
So  sweet,  they  are  scented,  the  still,  summer  day. 
By  the  bees  and  the  humming-birds,  meadows  away; 
And  over  them  circles  the  white-breasted  swallow, 
Peering  down  at  their  pride  in  the  green-dented  hollow. 

While  I  pinned  a  red  cluster  in  Laurie's  best  coat, 
And  sought  me  another  to  wear  at  my  throat, 

16 


He  should  tell  me  he  loved  me,  —  I  think  he  did  once  — 
When  of  course  I  should  blush,  like  a  silly  young  dunce; 
And  then  —  for  who  knows?  —  he  might  lift  my  torn 

fingers 
And  kiss  the  last  bruise  where  a  cruel  thorn  lingers. 

Anyhow  'twould  be  rapture,  if  nothing  were  said, 
Sitting  there  in  the  bloom,  with  the  clouds  overhead, 
Where  the  grass  runs  in  billows  aslant  up  the  hill. 
And  the  blackbirds  and  bobolinks  never  are  still; 
Where  each  swaying  tendril  a  blossom  discloses, 
And  butterflies  reel  o'er  an  ocean  of  roses. 

Well-a-day,  what's  the  use?    Here  he  comes  for  his  hat. 

This  Laurie,  nor  dreams  what  his  gudewife  is  at; 

He  is  off  to  his  ledgers,  and  I  —  well,  here  goes 

At  four  pairs  of  stockings  all  out  at  the  toes, 

A  coat  to  be  mended,  and  hems  to  be  run 

On  a   new  summer  scarf,  ere  my  labors  are  done. 


17 


OVER  THE   HILLS 

I  SIT  upon  Wachuset,  and  behold 

Far  to  the  north  New  Hampshire's  mountains  rise. 
Nor  steepled  towns  nor  forest-lands,  unrolled 

In  near,  encirding  vales,  can  tempt  my  eyes 
From  those  blue  peaks  that  skirt  the  distant  scene, 
Veiling  with  softer  light  their  brows  serene. 

Withdrawn  in  misty  shadows,  grandly  dim, 
Monadnock  towers  supreme  o'er  all  the  view; 

While  faint  as  dreams,  upon  the  horizon's  rim. 
The  Unkanoonucs  hft  their  domes  of  blue; 

And  clustered  fair,  in  nearer  plains  below. 

The  hills  of  Sharon  catch  the  sunset-glow. 

I  see  no  longer  town  or  gleaming  pond. 

Bathed  in  the  mellow  splendors  of  the  west. 

But  gaze  away  to  those  cool  heights  beyond; 
Where  wavy  range  and  solitary  crest 

Speak  to  my  heart  of  scenes  I  loved  of  yore 

Beneath  their  slopes,  in  days  that  are  no  more. 

O  lone  bird,  soaring  near  this  airy  peak 

Whereon  I  sit,  stay  not  for  darkening  skies! 

O'er  rosy  lakes  and  purpling  valleys  seek 
A  little  city  in  the  north,  that  lies 
18 


Set  low  in  meadows  by  a  river  wide, 

With  trees  embowered,  and  fields  on  either  side! 

When  there,  alit  upon  some  gilded  vane 
That  tells  its  dwellers  of  the  veering  wind, 

Your  eye  shall  scan  the  movements  on  the  plain, 
The  haunts  I  love,  the  friends  there  left  behind. 

Look  close  and  long,  for  I  shall  question  well. 

When  home  you  speed  again,  your  tale  to  tell! 

O  happy  bird,  sweet  bird,  the  shadows  grow ! 

I  sit  alone,  and  watch  the  sunset  pale 
Behind  your  flight,  while  in  the  woods  below 

Shudders  the  night-wind,  rustling  from  the  vale. 
Yet  morn  shall  see  your  pinions  sweeping  down 
With  sunrise  carols  o'er  that  river-town! 


19 


LAKE   WINNIPESAUKEE   IN 
OCTOBER 

The  woods  were  flushed  with  every  dye 
That  autumn's  changing  beauty  bore; 

From  azure  lake  to  azure  sky 

Their  splendors  crowned  the  sloping  shore. 

We  sailed  beneath  a  plumy  wall 

Of  belted  forests,  tier  on  tier, 
Meeting  the  heavens,  that  over  all 

Poured  golden  radiance,  soft  and  clear. 

Each  lowest  tree,  a  glowing  shape. 

Dipped  to  the  wave  its  branches  wide; 

While  rounded  isle  and  jutting  cape 
Reversed  their  glories  in  the  tide. 

Like  hosts  arrayed  the  maples  stood. 
With  flaming  banners  lifted  high, 

\Miere,  northward,  over  lake  and  wood, 
Pale  mountain-summits  cleft  the  sky. 

There  "\;Miiteface  towered  in  sullen  pride; 

His  flinty  brow,  though  seared  and  rent 
By  wintry  tempests,  still  defied 

The  thimderbolts  in  heaven  unspent. 
20 


Dappled  with  shadows  soft  and  warm, 
As  still  the  haunt  of  bird  and  bee. 

Through  mellow  distance  loomed  the  form 
Of  hazy,  cloud-swept  Ossipee. 

With  craggy  summit  sharp  and  bare 
Chocorua  held  his  state  alone; 

But  hailed,  through  leagues  of  upper  air. 
Great  Belknap  on  his  lofty  throne. 

Ere  waned  the  sunset's  misty  light 
We  turned  our  shallop,  gliding  fast, 

And  left  each  dim,  receding  height 
To  brave  the  winter's  coming  blast. 

O  friends,  no  longer  at  my  side, 

In  dreams  once  more  I  sail  with  you! 

Again,  above  the  sunlit  tide. 
We  lean  to  dip  the  waters  blue; 

Each  singing  low  in  calm  delight. 
And  musing  on  some  scene  of  yore; 

As  here  my  thought  recalls  to-night 
The  glancing  lake,  the  burning  shore! 


21 


THE   MERRIMAC    AT    HAVERHILL 

Flow  on,  O  river,  full  and  fast! 

You  near,  at  length,  the  engulfing  sea; 
Yet  tell  me  as  you  hasten  past 

If  no  sweet  message  comes  to  me! 

Here  on  the  swaying  bridge  I  lean, 

'Twixt  rounded  hills  and  peopled  shore; 

And  strange  is  all  the  varied  scene. 
And  strange  the  faces  passing  o'er. 

But  I  have  watched  you,  miles  away; 

For  I  remember  well  a  town 
Far  up  your  banks,  and  whence  to-day 

Your  rippling  waves  have  hurried  down. 


How  looked  it  there  this  breezy  morn? 

Saw  you  the  meadows,  green  and  wide; 
Were  swallows  heralding  the  dawn. 

Skimming  across  your  brimming  tide? 


Was  Palmer's  blessed  pathway  sweet 

With  breath  of  bloom  and  sun-steeped  pine? 

And,  roaming  there,  did  none  repeat 
To  loving  friends  a  name  like  mine? 


Were  I  up  there,  and  they  below, 

Fresh  garlands,  wove  to  tell  my  dream, 

Should  reach  them  in  a  birch  canoe; 
But  lambs  are  always  down  the  stream ! 

I  think  of  each;  —  the  little  friend 

Who  quarrels  with  me,  right  or  wrong; 

But  unto  whom  my  love  would  send 
Its  kisses  printed  in  a  song. 

Kisses,  forsooth !     How  we  should  clash 
In  that  old  war,  could  we  but  speak;  — 

She  raving  o'er  her  Trojan  trash, 
I  battling  for  my  glorious  Greek! 

And  down  some  lane,  with  whip  and  plume, 

I  see  a  bonny  lassie  go. 
As  swift  as  when  the  mountain  Flume 

Beheld  us  shuddering,  years  ago. 

One,  from  her  window,  views  the  scene 
Of  bowered  walks  my  fancy  loves! 

And  marks,  alighting  on  the  green, 
A  flock  of  snow-white,  Paphian  doves. 

O  best  of  women!  when  the  long 

Soft,  moonlit  evenings  make  thee  glad. 

Look  out,  for  me,  above  the  throng. 
To  dome  and  tree-top,  silver-clad! 
23 


The  tenderest  thought  in  vain  would  know 
The  half  my  longing  eyes  would  see; 

Yet  winds  will  whisper,  stars  will  glow, 
And  you,  dear  heart,  will  think  of  me ! 

I  know  the  robins'  noisy  call. 

From  elm-trees,  ere  the  morning  shines; 
I  know  the  sandy  plains  where  fall 

Dark  shadows  from  the  clustered  pines. 

And  dreams  of  these  return  to  me. 
As  musing  here,  at  close  of  day, 

I  wait  upon  the  bridge  to  see 
The  eddying  waters  roll  away. 

Now  cold  the  rushing  waves  come  down, 
The  sunset-glamours  fade  and  go; 

And  back,  within  the  alien  town, 
A  sober  pilgrim  paces  slow; 

Yet  happy -hearted,  since  her  dream 
Brings  blisses  that  the  fates  deny : 

She  keeps  her  tryst  above  the  stream. 
And  cares  not  where  the  summers  fly. 


U 


ON  A  CAMEO  OF  CERES 


Thy  face  was  carven  by  Italia's  sea, 
O  mother-goddess  of  the  golden  hair! 
And  he  who  WTOught  thy  lineaments  so  fair 

Upon  this  poHshed  shell  had  dreams  of  thee 

As  the  glad  giver;  recking  not  the  grief 
That  filled  all  lands  with  desolation  sore, 
And  taught  the  seas  to  moan  forevermore. 

When  thou  from  thy  great  anguish  sought  relief. 

No  vengeful  curse  of  thine  has  made  thee  deaf 
To  prayers  of  men;  but,  blessing  as  of  yore, 

With  reaper's  sickle  lifted  from  the  sheaf. 

Thou  smilest  'mid  the  fields'  ungarnered  store. 

Thus  didst  thou  look  ere  Enna's  blooming  meads 

Shook  to  the  thunder  of  the  coal-black  steeds! 


25 


SONNET 

Sweet  Summer  lures  me  with  a  thousand  wiles: 
She  says:  Come  forth  and  hear  my  billows  roar, 
Foam-capped  and  blue,  along  a  sultry  shore. 

Bearing  the  chill  of  sea-washed,  northern  isles! 

Look  skyward  to  my  mountains !  their  defiles 
Are  resonant  with  snow-fed  streams  that  pour 
Down  sunless  steeps;  and  cloudlets  wander  o'er 

Their  shadowed  summits  when  the  noon-tide  smiles : 
Lone  pasture-lanes  that  wind  by  meadow-trees. 

And  forest-alleys  dim,  are  spread  for  thee, 

Where  thou  with  thy  Beloved  may'st  walk  at  ease! 

Ah!  mocking  Summer,  thy  deUghts  aboimd! 

Yet  bring  my  friend  to  tread  those  aisles  with  me 

And  desert-wastes  may  whirl  their  sands  around! 


26 


EDITH 

Flowers  white  and  flowers  fair, 
Bring  them  for  my  Edith's  hair! 
TraiKng  robe  of  satin  sheen, 
Girdle  jewelled  for  a  queen, 
Misty  laces  floating  vn.de, 
Gayly  spangled  for  a  bride; 
Bear  them  hither,  maids,  I  pray,  — 
Edith  is  a  bride  to-day! 

Clouds,  with  storm  and  thunder  wroth. 
Crouch  behind  the  angry  north ! 
Sunshine,  freshened  in  the  dew. 
Sweep  along  the  smiling  blue! 
Breezes  from  the  distant  hills 
Gather  coolness  from  the  rills. 
Through  her  floating  laces  play; 
Edith  is  a  bride  to-day! 

Hymen,  clad  in  saffron  fair, 
Hasten  through  the  waiting  air! 
Marriage-bells,  ring  out,  ring  out. 
Burst  the  welkin  with  a  shout! 
Smiling  maids  in  sno'v\^  frocks 
Tarry  in  the  churchyard-walks, 
27 


Scatter  roses  in  her  way, 
Edith  is  a  bride  to-day ! 

Bliss,  without  the  lover's  smart. 
Crown  the  bridegroom's  happy  heart! 
Manly  pride  his  bosom  fill, 
Strong  to  keep  her  close  from  ill ! 
Silence,  let  not  Edith  hear 
Dropping  of  a  secret  tear! 
Sorrow,  leave  my  aching  breast. 
Breast  of  him  who  loves  her  best! 


38 


SPRING  VIOLETS 

Lifting  the  leaves  beside  a  brooklet's  bed, 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  violets  looking  through. 

Lo,  all  the  ground  beneath  was  stained  with  blue, 
Soft  as  the  azure  bending  overhead: 
They  lay  there  dreaming  close  beneath  my  tread, 

So  deeply  hid  that  scarce  the  beaded  dew 

That  damped  the  hillsides  of  their  covert  knew; 
Only  the  weedy  brook  their  pulses  fed. 
I  had  not  thought  a  single  bud  did  grow 

In  all  the  verdure  of  that  grassy  field. 
While  they  were  thick  as  stars  in  winter  skies; 

But  careless  feet  like  mine  will  never  know 
Where  beauty  loves  to  hide,  all  unrevealed 

Save  to  the  closer  search  of  loving  eyes. 


29 


THE  LOST  HEART 

I  HAVE  lost  my  heart  to-day;  — 

Shepherds  on  the  mountain-sides, 
Have  you  seen  a  heart  astray? 

Tell  me  where  my  treasure  hides! 
Lady  fair,  we  watch  our  sheep 

Fearful  lest  a  lamb  should  roam; 
Would  you  thus  your  treasures  keep 

You  must  guard  them  close  at  home. 

Gentles,  dreaming  on  the  lawn. 

Pardon  me,  I  humbly  pray, 
But  my  heart  is  fled  and  gone, 

Haply  it  has  passed  this  way ! 
Hearts  are  foolish  things,  they  said, 

Lightly  lost  and  soon  forgot; 
Rest  you  here,  my  pretty  maid, 

'Tis  a  trifle,  —  seek  it  not! 

Straight  I  met  a  brown-eyed  youth 

Coming  onward  through  a  wood; 
And  my  blushes  spake  the  truth 

Sooner  than  my  language  could. 
Maiden,  said  he,  looking  down 

With  his  glowing  eyes  on  me. 
Maiden,  I  have  lost  my  own; 

Let  me  seek  for  it  with  thee ! 
30 


LINES  TO  A  SENSITIVE   FRIEND 

ON   HER   VISITING   PORTLAND,    MAINE 

You  are  off  then  to-morrow,  to  sniff  the  salt  breeze. 
And  to  take  at  the  seaport  your  dignified  ease 
In  the  cool  of  her  fogs  and  the  gloom  of  her  trees. 
Ah  me,  when  I  think  of  such  pleasures  as  these 
All  my  heart  is  beguiled,  and  the  longing  grows  wild 
To  roam  through  the  streets  that  I  knew  when  a  child, 
Julia,  my  dear! 

For  many  a  time  I  have  watched  from  her  shore 
The  gleam  of  a  sail  and  the  flash  of  an  oar; 
On  her  hill  I  have  stood  counting  ships  by  the  score 
Through  the  glass  that  belonged  to  her  old  commodore; 
But  waiting  I've  been  for  my  ship  to  come  in 
Till  I  fear  she  has  sunk  with  her  cargo  of  tin, 
Julia,  my  dear ! 

Now  here  is  a  little  advice,  by  your  leave,  — 
A  thing  far  more  blessed  to  give  than  receive; 
And  I  trust  it  may  gain  you  a  happy  reprieve 
From  ills  that  might  otherwise  cause  you  to  grieve; 
Any  one  who  observes  the  frail  state  of  your  nerves 
Will  allow  it  no  more  than  their  weakness  deserves, 
Julia,  my  dear! 
31 


Do  not  walk  out  at  noon  if  the  sun  fiercely  glows, 
Lest  your  cheeks  burn  as  red  as  the  old-fashioned  rose 
That  down  in  my  grandmother's  garden-bed  grows; 
Or  a  huge  freckle  darken  the  end  of  that  nose; 
And  study  the  skies;  for  a  wind  might  arise 
And  throw  sandy  dust  in  your  \aolet  eyes, 
Julia,  my  dear! 

Nor  ever,  my  friend,  be  enticed  to  the  wharf 
When  a  Liverpool  packet  is  just  starting  off; 
For  men,  in  a  state  that  would  pain  Mr.  Gough, 
Will  jostle  you  round;  and  you're  sure  of  a  cough, 
To  say  nothing  of  wheezing  and  \Tiolent  sneezing, 
Till  you  reach  a  prime  state  for  a  delicate  freezing, 
Julia,  my  dear! 

And  this  is  not  all;  for  wherever  you  go 
A  clumsy  old  rope  will  lie  coiled  at  your  toe; 
And  your  gossamer  flounces  will  wickedly  blow 
Just  where  tar  and  molasses  in  rivulets  flow; 
So  take  special  care;  and  be  sure  not  to  wear 
That  apple-green  organdie,  should  you  go  there, 
Julia,  my  dear! 

And  there  you  meet  sailors;  so  shockingly  odd. 

With  their  trousers  so  wide  and  their  collars  so  broad; 

They  may   look  well  in  pictures;    but  one  who  has 

trod  ^     .  :    ,   ':  ■  " 

On  their  low  quarter-decks  must  feel  thankful  to  God 

32 


That  a  creature  so  tanned  was  not  made  for  the  land, 
But  to  dwell  among  fishes,  sea-serpents,  and  sand, 
Julia,  my  dear! 

And  they  have  on  their  ships  such  an  unpleasant  way 
Of  climbing  up  ropes,  like  wild  monkeys  at  play; 
While  ashore,  they  go  pitching  about  as  if  they 
Still  thought  they  were  rolling  half-over-the-bay ; 
You  will  own,  for  the  nonce,  that  he  must  be  a  dunce 
Who  can't  stand  upright  on  his  two  feet  at  once, 
Julia,  my  dear! 

Their  language  is  then  so  outlandish  and  queer 
That  I  beg  when  you  hear  them  beginning,  my  dear. 
You  will  stand  with  a  finger  pressed  hard  to  each  ear; 
Lest  you  could  not  forget  the  strange  talk  you  would 

hear; 
For  they  swear  you  By  jingo,  and  other  such  lingo. 
Learned  no  doubt  of  the  heathen  in  far  San  Domingo; 
Lord  help  us,  my  dear! 

Let  no  friend  persuade  you  a-sailing  to  go; 

Since  as  sure  as  you  do  there  will  come  up  a  blow, 

—  For  they  raise  the  wind  quick  in  that  harbor,  you 

know,  — 
And  then  you  may  find  a  free  passage  below; 
Or  worse,  as  agree  all  who  sail  the  blue  sea. 
You  begin  to  be  sea-sick,  and  feel  like  the  D., 
Julia,  my  dear! 
33 


And  steamboats  themselves  have  a  terrible  trick 
Of  striking  a  ledge,  where  the  fog  hovers  thick; 
When  you  go  rushing  down  like  a  thousand  of  brick, 
And  reach  the  dark  bottom  uncommonly  quick; 
Not  a  moment  it  spares  for  your  toilet  or  prayers, 
And  no  time  to  settle  your  little  affairs, 
Julia,  my  dear! 

Once  below,  the  sweet  mermaids  will  alter  their  tones, 
And  beat  you  to  jelly  in  spite  of  your  groans; 
While  the  mermen  \\-ill  sit  on  the  slippery  stones 
A-smacking  their  chops,   as  they   crunch  your  thin 

bones; 
And  gayly  declare,  with  a  swaggering  air. 
That  you  make  a  good  supper  when  sculpins  are  rare, 
Julia,  my  dear! 

So  when  you  are  tempted  to  leave  the  safe  shore 
Remember  the  friend  you  profess  to  adore. 
With  a  heart  beating  high  to  behold  you  once  more 
She  may  come  some  fine  morning  to  call  at  your  door; 
Then  how  it  would  shock  her,  when  they  answered  the 

knocker. 
To  hear  you  were  fast  dovm  in  Davy  Jones'  locker, 
Julia,  my  dear! 


34 


VIOLET  EYES 

J.    B.    K. 

Two  eyes  there  are  that  beam  for  me, 

Violet  eyes; 
Of  loveliness  so  past  compare 
No  painter's  brush  would  ever  dare 
To  blend  a  tint  so  soft  and  rare 

For  violet  eyes. 

Not  tresses  of  her  rippled  hair, 

Silky  and  brown. 
Nor  yet  her  voice,  when  light  and  clear 
She  trills  the  songs  I  love  to  hear, 
To  me  can  seem  one  half  so  dear 

As  violet  eyes. 

What  blazing  lights  within  them  gleam, 

Lustrous  as  stars! 
What  shifting  splendors  throb  and  glow 
O'er  creamy  cheeks  that  pale  below, 
Like  lightnings  flashing  over  snow 

In  luminous  skies! 

As  down  the  curling  lashes  go. 
Veiling  their  light, 
35 


Sly -lurking  under  fringes  fine 
I  see  the  frolic  fancies  shine 
And  leap  unspoken  into  mine 
From  violet  eyes. 

Their  lucent  depths  reveal  a  soul 

Earnest  and  brave; 
That  never  hides  its  eager  sense 
In  honeyed  language  sweet  and  dense. 
Lest  honest  words  should  give  offence 

To  timorous  ears. 

The  subtle  charm  that  culture  gives 

Crowns  her  with  grace; 
A  heart  that  knows  no  chill  eclipse 
Sits  smiling  on  her  parted  lips, 
And  thrills  me  from  the  finger-tips 
With  welcoming  clasp. 

Since  youth  was  ours,  my  little  friend, 

In  weal  or  woe, 
These  liquid  eyes  have  been  to  me 
Clear  wells  of  light,  wherein  I  see 
A  heart's  unmeasured  constancy 

And  affluent  love. 

May  Time,  who  makes  all  gifts  his  own, 

Spare  me  this  love ! 
That  still  its  kindling  glow  may  cheer 
36 


Life's  dark  decline,  when  sad  and  drear 
I  watch  bright  visions  disappear 
In  pitiless  night! 

Through  tears  I  see  those  lovely  eyes 

Sparkling  with  glee; 
Yes,  happy  heart,  forever  gay. 
We  both  will  laugh  the  years  away. 
Until,  like  children  tired  of  play. 

We  slumber  at  last! 


37 


WHY  LOVE  IS  BLIND 

At  noon,  across  a  woody  glade, 

I  took  my  silent  way. 
And  spied  how  by  an  alder-shade, 

Asleep  young  Cupid  lay; 
His  silver  bow  beside  him  flung. 
With  arrow  spent  and  cord  unstrung. 

The  cherub  face  was  pillowed  deep 

Within  one  snowy  palm; 
So  strangely  still,  I  knew  his  sleep 

Was  death's  eternal  calm; 
That  secret  pain  or  hostile  blow 
Had  laid  the  little  archer  low. 

Alone,  unwept,  —  I  sighed  aloud,  — 

His  sportive  race  is  run! 
Why  does  not  Venus  come  to  shroud 

Her  only,  darling  son? 
Or  send  her  team  of  sparrows  here. 
To  bear  him  to  a  fitter  bier? 

A  rose-bush,  by  the  breezes  fanned. 
Was  snowing  o'er  the  ground: 

I  heaped  the  petals  in  my  hand 

And  strewed  them  round  and  round; 
38 


I  hid  his  neck,  his  body  sweet, 
And  drifted  them  across  his  feet. 

I  could  not  bear  to  hide  his  head. 

His  little  face  so  fair, 
The  dimpled  lips  so  firmly  wed. 

The  chin,  the  golden  hair; 
So  two  pink  leaves  of  tiny  size 
I  dropped  above  his  lidded  eyes. 

I  turned  and  mused,  as  on  I  went,  — 
Since  thus  the  gods  have  willed, 

In  mercy  is  their  judgment  sent; 
That  men  no  more  be  filled 

With  grief  and  woe,  and  all  the  smart 

His  shafts  awaken  in  the  heart! 

A  sunbeam  smote  the  leafy  wood 
And  slanted  toward  the  place; 

I  turned  a  moment  where  I  stood 
To  see  it  light  his  face, 

And  touch  the  hands  so  marble-cold, 

That  never  more  a  bow  would  hold. 

When  lo,  where  now  the  petals  lay 
Two  beaming  eyes  of  blue. 

With  mirth  and  mischief  held  in  play, 
Were  slyly  peeping  through; 
39 


And  round  the  lips  so  tightly  drawn 
A  quick  laugh  rippled  and  was  gone. 

The  sudden  rapture  that  I  felt 
Made  all  my  pulses  thrill; 

An  instant  by  the  rogue  I  knelt; 
And,  ere  my  thought  could  will, 

I  tore  him  from  his  rosy  sheet, 

And  blinded  him  with  kisses  sweet. 


40 


IN  THE   FIELDS 


How  thick  the  flowers  stud  the  shining  grass 

On  hillsides  greening  in  the  warm  May  sun ! 

The  branching  buttercups  have  just  begun 
To  lift  their  glossy  bowls,  and  overpass 
The  strawberry  blossoms,  clustered  in  a  mass 

Of  sno^\'y  bloom  beneath.     But  violets  shun 

These  breezy  slopes,  and  hide  where  brooklets  run 
Through  leafy  coverts  and  the  wild  morass. 
Broad  dandelions  spot  with  tufted  gold 

The  green  of  meadows;  every  hedgerow  yields 
Its  budding  garlands  pearled  "^^th  morning  showers. 

Such  fair  delights  before  mine  eyes  unrolled 
Bring  childhood  back;  and  in  these  smiling  fields 

My  soul  grows  young  again  amid  the  flowers. 

II 

The  air  is  peopled;  all  the  happy  day 

Gay  bobolinks  flash  by  with  liquid  notes, 

Or  pour  sweet  melodies  from  trembling  throats, 

The  while  they  rock  upon  a  bending  spray; 

With  languid  wing,  upon  her  devious  way, 
The  butterfly  in  dreamy  splendor  floats; 
And  countless  insect  tribes,  in  spangled  coats 

Of  gleamy  gold,  pursue  their  circling  play. 

41 


Round  every  blossomed  bough  a  wild  bee  hums; 

And  dragon-flies  dart  zig-zag  through  the  air 
O'er  reedy  ponds,  on  whirr  of  gauzy  wings. 

Thus  every  year  a  glimpse  of  Eden  comes; 
And  life  seems  passing  in  that  garden  fair. 

When  Spring  immortal  all  her  beauty  brings. 


42 


CARPE  DIEM 

Ah,  Jennie,  dear,  'tis  half  a  year 

Since  we  sang  late  and  long,  my  Love ! 
As  home  o'er  dusky  fields  we  came. 
While  Venus  lit  her  tender  flame 
In  silent  plains  above. 

I  scarcely  knew  if  rain  or  dew 

Had  made  the  grass  so  fresh  and  sweet; 
I  only  felt  the  misty  gloom 
Was  filled  with  scent  of  hidden  bloom 

That  bent  beneath  our  feet. 

In  songs  we  tried  our  hearts  to  hide. 
And  each  to  crush  a  voiceless  pain. 
With  bitter  force  my  love  returned, 
But  dared  not  hope  that  passion  burned 
Where  once  it  met  disdain. 

Thus  singing  still  we  reached  the  hill. 
And  on  it  faced  a  breeze  of  June; 

White  rolled  the  mist  along  the  lea; 

But  eastward  flashed  a  throbbing  sea 
Beneath  the  rising  moon. 
43 


Your  lips  apart,  as  if  your  heart 

Had  something  it  would  say  to  mine, 

I  saw  you  with  your  dreamy  glance 

Far  sent,  in  some  delicious  trance, 
Beyond  the  silver  shine. 

The  hour  supreme,  that  in  my  dream 

Should  bring  me  bliss  for  aye,  was  come; 
But  though  my  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
The  scornful  words  that  once  you  spake 
Smote  all  its  pleadings  dumb. 

No  note  or  word  the  silence  stirred, 

As  we  resumed  our  homeward  tread; 
Below  we  heard  the  cattle  browse, 
And  wakeful  birds  within  the  boughs 
Move  softly  overhead. 

The  hour  was  late  when  at  the  gate 
We  lingered  ere  we  spake  adieu; 

Your  white  hand  plucked  from  near  the  door 

A  lily's  queenly  cup,  and  tore 
Each  waxen  leaf  in  two. 

My  hope  grew  bold,  and  I  had  told 
Anew  my  love,  my  fate  had  known; 

But  then  a  quick  Good  night  I  heard, 

A  whirring,  like  a  startled  bird. 
And  there  I  stood  alone! 
44 


Thus  love-bereft  my  heart  was  left, 

At  swinging  of  that  cruel  door; 
So  shut  the  gates  of  Paradise 
On  timid  fools  who  dare  not  twice 
Ask  bliss  denied  before! 

Yes,  Jennie  dear,  'tis  half  a  year; 

But  all  my  doubts,  my  fears  are  flown; 
For  did  I  not  on  yesternight 
Read  once  again  your  love  aright. 

And  dare  proclaim  my  own? 


45 


THE  ALGALORE 

No  heart  can  know  how  long  ago 

My  ship,  the  Algalore, 
In  morning  breezes  sailed  away, 
Beyond  the  cliff,  beyond  the  bay, 
Till,  veering  on  the  glowing  skies. 
She  dipped,  and  vanished  from  my  eyes. 

Since  then  I  pace  along  the  beach, 

"WTien  sunsets  flush  the  sea, 
Or  when  the  moonlight's  silver  shine 
Flings  o'er  the  wave  its  dancing  line; 
And  almost  hear,  .with  eager  mind. 
Her  busy  crew  the  windlass  wind. 

For  years  November's  rattling  sleet 

Has  frozen  to  her  shrouds; 
For  years  the  spring's  returning  gales 
Have  dallied  with  her  sun-lit  sails; 
Yet  still  I  scan  the  tower  in  vain. 
To  find  her  signalled  from  the  main. 

Oh  say,  good  vessels  homeward  bound. 

Saw  you  this  ship  of  mine? 
Spoke  you  a  barque  of  sturdy  build. 
With  colors  up  and  canvas  filled.'' 
46 


And  gave  she  you  no  word  to  keep 
Of  how  she  fared  upon  the  deep? 

A  gallant  ship !  no  billow's  rush 

Could  whelm  her  in  its  tide; 
No  tempest  part  her  solid  decks 
To  strew  the  brine  with  floating  wrecks; 
But  gayly  still  before  the  breeze 
She  skims  the  foam  of  tossing  seas. 

Her  sails  are  snowier  than  clouds 

That  fleece  an  April  sky; 
And  from  her  prow  an  angel  springs, 
With  lifted  brow  and  sloping  wings, 
Who  holds  within  light  finger-tips, 
A  slender  trumpet  to  his  lips. 

Blow  me  a  note,  O  angel  mine. 
Across  the  boundless  waste! 
Blow  me  a  note,  and  I  shall  hear. 
And  know  by  that  what  course  you  steer, 
Though  leagues  of  tide-swept  waters  lean 
And  roll  their  thunder-tones  between ! 

Her  freight  —  ah,  me!  what  bore  she  not? 

What  wealth  of  heart  and  brain. 
What  faith,  and  love,  and  hopes  untold 
Lie  stored  within  her  ample  hold ! 
My  life  is  bankrupt,  if  in  vain 
She  bear  these  ventures  o'er  the  main! 
47 


Perchance,  around  her,  breezes  float 

From  off  some  bloommg  isle; 
And  there,  begirt  by  lofty  palms. 
She  rocks  at  ease  in  tropic  calms. 
And  fears  to  near  a  craggy  shore 
Where  billows  leap  and  breakers  roar. 

Ho!  laggard  ship!     Time  speeds  with  me; 

Give  wings  to  every  wind ! 
I  long  to  see  your  crowded  sails 
Come  swelling  in  on  fresh  spring  gales: 
I  long  upon  the  strand  once  more 
To  board  my  brave  ship  Algalore. 

No  sooner  will  she  grate  the  sand 

Than  I  shall  bound  beside. 
To  hail  her  sun-burnt  sailors  bold. 
And  ask,  —  "What  cargo  in  her  hold, 
What  rich  return  she  brings  to  me. 
For  all  I  sent  across  the  sea? 

But  oh!  ye  calm,  resistless  tides, 

Ere  she  come  back  to  port 
With  empty  hull  and  rigging  torn, 
To  dash  the  hopes  my  years  have  borne. 
Forever  on  your  bosom  keep 
This  homeless  rover  of  the  deep ! 


48 


OUR  LAST  CROQUET 

Pull  up  the  wickets  from  the  lawn ! 

No  more  croquet  we  play. 
Clear,  sunny  days  at  length  are  past, 
And  now  the  snowflakes  gather  fast 
\Miere  yesterday  we  rolled  our  last 

In  this  same  little  game  of  croquet. 

The  turf  must  soon  be  buried  deep 

For  many  a  wintry  day; 
That  well-worn  turf,  where,  late  and  soon, 
By  summer  sun  and  harvest  moon. 
Our  mallets  clicked  a  merry  tune 

In  this  same  little  game  of  croquet. 

Yet  oft  shall  we,  with  dreaming  eye. 

The  vanished  groups  survey; 
Still  see  them  shifting  o'er  the  ground, 
Still  hear  their  laughter's  silver  sound, 
The  sudden  shout,  the  ball's  rebound, 

In  this  same  little  game  of  croquet. 

There,  golden-haired  and  tender-eyed, 

Adonis  leads  the  play; 
While  maidens  on  their  mallets  lean, 
49 


More  fair  than  Ilium's  stolen  queen, 
And  view  him  smite  with  look  serene. 
In  this  same  little  game  of  croquet. 

Still  trail  upon  the  garden-wall 

Bright  mantles,  flung  away 
An  arm's  swift  vengeance  to  promote; 
And  still  from  slender  waist  and  throat 
The  wind-blown  ribbons  gayly  float, 

In  this  same  little  game  of  croquet. 

Again  we  move  with  careful  stroke 

Amid  the  eager  fray; 
But  when  we  deem  all  perils  over, 
And  stakeward  drive,  a  lurking  rover 
Still  sends  us  spinning  through  the  clover 

In  this  same  little  game  of  croquet. 

What  sparring  of  contending  balls. 

What  merciless  roquet! 
What  famous  shots,  what  hot  disputes, 
What  knockings  under  tiny  boots, 
While  off  the  luckless  exile  shoots 

In  this  same  little  game  of  croquet! 

How  lightly  round  our  mallets  swing. 

When  luck  has  won  the  day ! 
How  proudly,  that  the  skies  may  know. 
We  sound  our  triumph  o'er  the  foe, 
50 


And  homeward,  under  starlight  go, 
From  this  same  little  game  of  croquet ! 

Fresh  grow  the  turf  whereon  we  trod, 

When  next  returns  the  May ! 
And  yet  I  can  but  query  whether 
We  all  may  stand  again  together,  — 
Brave  Golden-stripe  and  Azure-feather,  — 
And  strike  once  more  beneath  the  leather, 

In  this  same  little  game  of  croquet. 


51 


A  WINTER  DREAM  OF 
PRINCETON,   I^IASSACHUSETTS 

Keen  blasts  sweep  over  Princeton  hills, 
And  round  the  fallen  snow  is  whirled; 

In  guUies  vnde  the  drifts  are  piled, 

Their  feathered  crests  all  scooped  and  curled 

In  eddies  of  the  wind  so  wild. 

Its  upland  roads,  hlovm  clean  and  bare, 
Stretch  out  beneath  the  blanching  moon; 

Below,  the  sheeted  country  lies, 
With  leafless  forests  darkly  strewn. 

Whose  branches  vein  the  frosty  skies. 

If  cruel  winter  rages  there. 

Where  hide  the  little  birds  that  flung 
From  every  bush  their  merry  strains? 

Where  float  the  butterflies  that  swung 
Alit  on  thistles  in  the  lanes? 

At  morn,  across  the  sunny  road. 
Do  shining  snakes  no  longer  glide 

And  vanish  under  mossy  cones? 
Are  crickets  dumb  at  eventide, 

Housed  snugly  under  pasture-stones? 
52 


Ah  me,  the  nests  are  brimmed  with  snow; 

Ice  glitters  where  the  leaves  were  green; 
At  dusk,  upon  the  wayside  bars, 

No  more  the  happy  farmers  lean. 
To  gossip  under  dewy  stars. 

All  this  I  know;  and  yet  to  me 

In  summer's  light  the  village  gleams; 

No  stealthy  frost  that  winter  yields 

Sends  shivers  through  the  purling  streams; 

No  breath  of  autumn  seres  the  fields. 

No  scarlet  leaves  from  maple  boughs 
Twirl  lightly  down  on  faded  grass; 

No  shadows  from  a  driving  cloud 
O'er  plains  of  scanty  stubble  pass; 

But  buds  are  bright  and  birds  are  loud. 

In  shaded  brooks  the  sun-drops  play; 

Crows  call  above  the  rustling  wheat; 
From  hidden  nests,  on  quiet  eves, 

Trill  happy  gurgles,  low  and  sweet, 
Half-smothered  in  the  circling  leaves. 

When  winter  whirls  about  me  here, 
I  keep  this  picture  in  my  mind; 

And  so,  when  chilling  tempests  lower, 
A  summer  in  the  past  I  find, 

Whose  glory  floods  my  dreamy  hour. 
53 


REST 

A  ROSE  unbloomed  for  want  of  light. 
With  petals  folded,  cool  and  white; 
A  babe  upon  his  mother's  breast; 
A  glad  bird  dre&,ming  in  a  nest; 
Thus  do  I  picture  Rest. 

World-weary,  I  have  sought  in  vain 
Some  peaceful  resting  place  to  gain; 
Now  know  I  it  may  not  be  found, 
Save  in  a  narrow  strip  of  ground, 
Arched  upward  to  a  mound. 

Then  welcome.  Death !  since  death  alone 
Can  ease  the  pangs  my  soul  hath  known. 
My  heavy  eyes,  with  sorrow  wet, 
In  dreamless  sleep  shall  soon  forget 
Life's  labor  and  its  fret. 

Then  lay  me  deep  beneath  a  sod 
Where  bleeding  feet  have  never  trod; 
So  deep  that  I  may  never  hear 
The  dropping  of  a  human  tear, 
Or  stifled  cry  of  fear. 
54 


Place  there  a  stone  above  the  spot; 
Of  slate  or  marble  care  I  not, 
So  be  it  it  shall  dull  the  tread 
Of  all  sad  walkers  overhead, 
Who  pace  above  the  dead. 

Three  days  our  Saviour  lay  at  rest, 
With  weak  hands  folded  on  his  breast. 
Ere  he  unclosed  his  deathless  eyes. 
And,  soaring  through  the  upper  skies. 
Re-entered  Paradise. 

Thus  would  I  pause  a  little  space 
To  cleanse  my  soul  from  every  trace 
Of  earth's  blind  agony  and  sin. 
Before  I  dare  to  enter  in 

Where  holiness  hath  been. 

Three  days,  apart  from  care  and  doubt, 
With  grief  not  smothered,  but  sighed  out! 
Three  days,  that  I  mine  eyes  may  steep 
In  cooling  slumber,  still  and  deep, 
A  soft,  untroubled  sleep! 

Then  with  a  glad  heart  speeding  on 
To  where  our  risen  Lord  hath  gone, 
My  bounding  feet  at  length  shall  press 
Those  golden  shores,  where  happiness 
Waits,  calm  and  measureless. 
55 


THE  HERO 

JOHN   BROWN 

Thank  God  that  all  the  martyr-stuff 
Hath  not  yet  perished  from  the  earth, 

That  still  there  lingereth  enough 
To  give  a  stalwart  hero  birth! 

Whence  is  it  that,  when  ills  are  rife, 
There  riseth,  at  the  timely  hour, 

Some  spirit  fit  to  rule  the  strife, 

And  wrest  from  Sin  his  vaunted  power? 

Men  calmly  claim  for  written  thought 
An  inspiration  from  on  High, 

And  say  the  ready  words  were  wrought 
To  music  sweet  —  they  knew  not  why. 

Is  not  a  deed  a  surer  gain 

Than  thought,  in  closets  brooding  still? 
Will  not  the  Power  that  fired  the  brain. 

Direct  alike  the  hand  and  will? 

God-sent,  the  hero  copes  with  wrong, 
God-guided  chooseth  he  his  means; 

No  words  of  blame  to  us  belong; 

Let  Him  condemn  on  whom  he  leans! 
56 


While  colder  natures  sit  and  plan 

A  wiser  method,  surer  laws 
By  which  to  free  their  fellow-man, 

And  wipe  away  effect  and  cause; 

Untrammelled  by  the  lore  of  time. 

Forth  steps  a  soul  fresh-made  from  God, 

And,  moving  with  a  trust  sublime, 
It  crushes  error  to  the  sod. 

Success  or  loss  —  who  can  compute? 

Let  praise  be  still  and  judgment  dumb 
Till  we  shall  see  what  hidden  fruit 

Will  ripen  in  the  years  to  come! 

May,  1860. 


57 


PRO  PATRIA 

IN    MEMORY    OF   LIEUT.    SAMUEL   FESSENDEN 

Sleep,  soldier,  sleep !  for  thee  no  more 
The  drum  shall  beat,  the  sabre  shine! 

No  more  shall  flash  the  moving  steel. 
Close-serried  down  the  line ! 

On  trampled  turf  thy  young  head  lay, 
In  stranger  arms  expired  thy  breath ; 

But  find  me  here  one  noble  heart 
That  envies  not  thy  death! 

Without,  the  boom  of  angry  guns. 
The  rolling  smoke,  the  battle  cry; 

War's  bloody  footprints  in  the  sod, 
His  banners  on  the  sky. 

Within,  the  peace  that  heroes  know 
Who  die  for  honor  in  their  youth, 

Who  breathe  away  their  lives  in  prayer 
For  victory  of  truth. 

Then  sweetly  sleep !  such  heroes  make 
A  nation's  glory  and  her  pride; 

And  dearer  is  the  land  for  which 
Thou  hast  so  bravely  died ! 
58 


OUR  BURIED  SOLDIER 

S.    F.    C. 

Blow,  snowy  winter  wind, 

And  heap  his  new-made  grave! 

Drop  there  a  mantle  light  and  warm; 

He  long  hath  shivered  in  the  storm; 
Now  cover  well  the  brave! 

Blow,  searching  northern  blast, 
And  sweep  the  heavens  clear! 
War's  lurid  vapors,  hot  and  red, 
Have  rolled  in  thunder  o'er  his  head; 
Let  azure  skies  be  here! 

Make  soft  his  pillow,  Earth! 

In  vain,  through  lone  unrest, 
He  prayed  to  touch  his  mother's  brow; 
Be  thou  a  mother  to  him  now. 

And  fold  him  to  thy  breast! 

The  clear,  crisp  airs  of  March 

Hang  silent  o'er  the  dead; 
Let  beat  of  drum  and  trumpets'  ring 
Their  fierce  accord  no  longer  bring 

To  rouse  him  from  his  bed ! 
59 


We  leave  him  here  to  sleep 

Through  wind  and  rain  and  snow; 

His  heart  in  endless  peace  is  still ; 

Would  God  that  we  might  calm  at  will 
This  agony  we  know! 

The  snow  shall  melt  in  flowers, 
The  air  shall  pulse  with  song, 
And  birdlings  come  with  timid  feet 
To  hop  among  the  grasses  sweet 
And  chirp  there  all  day  long. 

Oh  thus  may  soothing  Time 

Transform  our  grief  and  pain! 
Make  buds  of  gladness  start  and  bloom 
From  out  the  heart  of  wintry  gloom, 
And  bring  us  hope  again ! 


60 


NIGHTFALL 

The  wind  has  gone  down  with  the  set  of  the  sun, 
And  left  a  lone  cloud  hanging  dusky  and  still 

Athwart  the  pale  blue,  where  the  tremulous  stars 
Are  waiting  to  shine  over  meadow  and  hill. 

They  come  flocking  out  on  the  soft  dewy  air, 

Till  throb  the  wide  heavens  with  their  pulses  of  light; 

The  cloud  stirs  its  folds  and  is  trailing  away, 
Through  fringes  revealing  the  glitter  of  night. 

Against  the  clear  sky  the  old  oak  rises  grim, 

With  black  branches  crossing  the  rose-tinted  west; 

While  high  toward  the  wood  wings  the  late-roaming 
bird. 
And  drops  to  his  home  in  some  verdurous  nest. 

Be  still,  O  my  soul,  in  thy  bitter  despair. 

Nor  yearn  through  thy  depths  for  the  love  that  is 
not! 

Peace  falls  with  the  dew,  but  it  falleth  in  vain; 
No  balm  can  it  bring  to  thy  desolate  lot ! 

Full  sadly  I  know  that  such  twilights  must  come 
When  youth  and  her  love-dreams  in  silence  are  fled. 

To  find  the  old  longing  still  burning  unquenched. 
And  still  the  soul-hunger  forever  unfed. 
61 


THE  HOME  OF  CHARLOTTE 
BRONTE; 


The  airy  spring  now  melts  in  purple  mists 
Along  the  hills  that  girt  still  Haworth  round; 
And  from  the  vale  beneath  comes  up  the  sound 
Of  distant  beck,  with  soothing,  mellow  tone; 
While,  pausing  in  his  song,  the  linnet  lists 
Its  drowsy  music,  sweeter  than  his  owti. 
The  sun  lies  warm  upon  the  lonely  moors; 
And,  springing  from  the  heath,  the  skylark  pours 
His  joyous  notes,  that  thrill  the  heavens  through, 
Singing  and  dro^vming  in  the  dreamy  blue. 
And  while  around  his  path  the  daylight  dies, 
May's  slender  moon,  half-lost  in  rosy  skies, 
Hastens  its  coming  over  fields  of  dew : 
Thus,  in  my  dreams,  her  home  serenely  lies. 

II 

The  hills  of  Haworth  I  may  never  see; 
And  should  I  wander  there,  in  coming  years, 
My  loving  heart  would  seek,  with  fruitless  tears, 
For  her  whose  life  hath  sanctified  the  place, 
And  made  its  moorland  holy  ground  to  me. 
In  vain  I  long  to  gaze  upon  her  face, 
62 


To  clasp  her  hand  in  mine,  and  tell  the  fame 
That  we  have  learned  to  couple  with  her  name. 
She  sleeps  in  peace;  but  many  an  age  shall  hear 
The  story  of  her  genius,  and  revere 
The  soul  of  might,  born  ever  to  aspire. 
Yet  ever  curbed  at  duty's  stern  desire; 
The  pulsing  heart,  whose  eager  hope  and  fear 
Have  left  their  throbbings  writ  in  words  of  fire. 


63 


ALL  THROUGH  THE   NIGHT 

All  through  the  night, 
Dear  Father,  when  our  trembling  eyes  explore 

In  vain  Thy  heavens,  bereft  of  warmth  and  light, 
When  birds  are  mute,  and  roses  glow  no  more, 
And  this  fair  world  sinks  rayless  from  our  sight. 
Oh,  Father,  keep  us  then! 

All  through  the  night, 
When  no  lips  smile,  nor  dear  eyes  answer  ours. 

Nor  well-known  voices  through  the  shadows  come; 
When  love  and  friends  seem  dreams  of  vanished  hours. 
And  darkness  holds  us  pitiless  and  dumb. 
Oh,  Father,  keep  us  then! 

All  through  the  night. 
When  lone  despairs  beset  our  happy  hearts. 

And  drear  forebodings  will  not  let  us  sleep; 
When  every  smothered  sorrow  freshly  starts, 
And  pleads  for  pity  till  we  fain  would  weep. 
Oh,  Father,  keep  us  then! 
64 


All  through  the  night, 
When  slumbers  deep  our  weary  senses  fold. 

Protect  us  in  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand! 
And  when  the  morn,  with  glances  bright  and  bold, 
Thrills  the  glad  heavens  and  wakes  the  smiling  land, 
Oh,  Father,  keep  us  then! 


65 


OVER  THE   WAY 

It  is  Nannie  who  sits  by  the  drawing-room  casement, 

For  a  fine  Uttle  lady  is  she; 
And  she  sees  not  the  cook's  happy  child  in  the  base- 
ment, 

As  she  smiles  from  her  window  to  me. 

Well-a-day,  lady  mine,  with  the  bows  at  your  shoulder, 

And  the  silken  snood  tied  in  your  hair. 
Have  you  felt  all  the  woes  of  the  hearts  that  are  older, 

That  you  pout  ruby  lips  in  despair? 

I  query  if  two  sparkling  eyes  could  look  sadder. 

Gazing  wistfully  over  the  trees; 
Did  I  know  where  to  find  me  a  fairy's  tall  ladder, 

I  would  fetch  the  new  moon  that  she  sees. 

For  plainly  she  sighs  for  the  lights  in  the  heaven, 

Growing  weary  of  trinkets  and  toys; 
It  is  early  to  learn,  pretty  maiden  of  seven. 

That  the  world  has  no  permanent  joys ! 

Soon  she  drops  the  slow  curtain,  unheeding  my  glances; 

But  still,  at  the  window  below, 
A  child  sits  alone,  spinning  merriest  fancies, 

With  her  fresh  little  face  all  aglow. 
66 


She  tosses  her  curls  in  a  wildering  pleasure, 

As  she  carols  some  rollicking  strain; 
Though  I  hear  not  a  word,  I  can  guess  the  brave 
measure 

From  the  tap  of  her  hand  on  the  pane. 

Now  she  beats  a  last  trill,  dancing  off  like  a  feather. 

And  I  smile  a  Good  night,  as  she  flies; 
Blessed  dreams,  happy  heart,  and  the  finest  of  weather 

At  morn,  in  your  radiant  skies ! 

Your  sleep  shall  be  sweet,  and  your  days  shall  be  sunny, 

Wherever  your  life  may  be  spent; 
For  you  hold  what  is  better  than  jewels  or  money. 

The  treasure  of  priceless  content ! 


67 


SONNET 

Hist,  howling  ^vinds,  and  leave  me  to  my  dreams ! 

Ye  snowflakes,  dropping  through  the  sunless  hours, 

Full  deep  enough  are  buried  summer  flowers 
To  stay  in  cloudy  heights  your  crystal  streams ! 
Yet  dreams,  —  what  are  they?     Cheats  and  triflers 
all, 

That  flee  to  leave  our  fates  more  grim  and  bare; 
Better  at  once  to  break  their  witching  thrall, 

And  face  out  life  with  dull,  defiant  stare. 

Then  drift,  deep  snows,  across  the  greensward  there ! 
Smooth  from  my  sight  the  footprints  that  recall 
The  friend  whose  coming  filled  the  air  with  song ! 

No  more  my  soul  shall  court  a  hopeless  past; 
Dear  God  of  pity,  hast  Thou  fioods  so  strong 

To  drown  remembrance,  pour  them  full  and  fast ! 


68 


FALLING  LEAVES 

All  night,  through  the  windy  darkness 

And  gusts  of  the  chilly  rain, 
The  shivering  leaves  come  tapping 

So  light  at  my  window-pane. 

All  day,  through  the  clear,  cool  sunlight, 
Where  yellowing  elms  turn  brown. 

In  many  a  golden  shower 

Their  wavering  flakes  sail  down. 

From  hills  where  the  sun-steeped  woodlands 
Are  strained  by  the  lashing  gale 

They  pour  over  frozen  meadows. 
Like  radiant  storms  of  hail. 

In  ruts  of  the  sodden  highways 

At  lull  of  the  winds  they  fall; 
They  lodge  in  the  barberry  bushes. 

They  drift  by  the  pasture- wall. 

Down  paths  of  deserted  graveyards 

They  eddy  and  spin  and  glide; 
On  coves  of  the  land-locked  waters 

Their  anchorless  shallops  ride. 
69 


Alone  on  the  shaven  upland 
I  climb  till  the  world  is  wide, 

And  mark  how  the  wailing  forests 
Resound  like  a  surging  tide. 

Poor  trees,  we  may  grieve  together 
That  Summer,  the  queen,  is  dead! 

No  years  can  repeat  the  splendor 
She  poured  on  a  fair  young  head. 

No  suns,  in  the  pomp  of  morning. 
Will  kindle  the  skies  like  these; 

No  moons,  with  so  soft  a  glory. 
Shall  traverse  the  pulsing  seas. 

Then  mourn  for  the  fallen  treasures 
That  June  will  restore  to  you ! 

I  sigh,  in  my  bosom  crushing 

Sweet  dreams  that  no  Springs  renew. 


70 


IN  RUINS 

All  through  the  summer's  rosy  light 

I  built  my  castle  fine; 
And  not  a  soul  should  dwell  therein 

Save  only  mine  and  thine. 
My  Love, 

In  loneliness  divine! 

No  cost  of  make,  nor  wealth  of  hue 
I  spared  from  base  to  dome; 

Where  lordly  monarchs  choose  to  bide 
They  rear  a  kingly  home; 

And  so 
This  rose  like  silver  foam. 

Stand  here  upon  the  sunlit  plain, 
And  see  how  fair  it  shines ! 

Untaught,  I  reared  its  airy  towers 
And  shaped  its  perfect  lines; 

For  love 
All  excellence  divines. 

But,  while  I  gaze,  a  dusky  film 

Across  its  splendor  falls; 
My  purples  and  my  gold  are  dim;  — 
71 


What  ails  the  reeling  walls? 

What  doom 
Sends  terror  through  its  halls? 

The  keen  air  sweeps  adown  the  hill : 

Give  me  a  hand  to  hold! 
I  shiver  in  these  breezes  chill 

That  grows  so  fierce  and  bold; 
Yet  hearts 

May  laugh  at  winter's  cold. 

That  hand  of  thine,  so  fair  and  strong, 
I  thought  could  clasp  me  warm; 

It  melts  within  my  burning  grasp 
Like  touch  of  ghostly  form; 

I  hear 
No  heart-beat  through  the  storm. 

Great  winds  from  out  the  heavens  leap; 

No  castle-dome  appears; 
Rain  dashes  on  mine  upturned  face. 

To  quench  the  hope  of  years : 
Pour,  floods! 

Yet  faster  flow  my  tears. 


72 


TO  MY  BIRD  IN  THE  SOUTH 

Come  back  to  me,  Robin!  the  days  are  so  long, 

The  nights  are  so  silent  and  drear! 
There  is  never  a  note  like  your  rapturous  song 

In  all  the  wide  heavens  to  hear! 

Oh  the  rare,  sunny  mornings,  the  warm,  dewy  eves, 

The  perfume  from  gardens  of  bloom ! 
And  high  from  his  bower  of  tremulous  leaves 

My  bird's  last  Good  night  through  the  gloom! 

Now  blows  the  dry  snow  from  the  drift's  wavy  peak, 

And  fields  glitter  cold  to  the  moon; 
In  gusts  of  the  night-wind  the  icy  boughs  creak 

And  moan  out  a  dolorous  tune. 

But  when  the  red  clovers  stand  thick  in  the  grass. 

And  rose-buds  are  bursting  again. 
When  musical  flocks  over  meadow-lands  pass. 

Oh  where  will  my  robin  be  then? 

Pouring   wildly   at   casements,  where  strangers   look 
through. 
The  notes  that  once  ravished  mine  ear, 
And  eagerly  wooing,  as  all  robins  do, 
New  lovers  for  every  new  year. 
73 


So  sing,  pretty  warbler,  and  praise  whom  you  may! 

Only  haste  with  the  spring  to  my  tree. 
And  trill  me  a  measure!  for  long  is  the  day 

Since  Robin  came  singing  to  me. 

These  skies  must  grow  warm  ere  your  greeting  be  heard, 
These  winds  flutter  soft  to  your  breast; 

But  a  heart  throbs  for  you  in  the  north,  little  bird. 
While  tempests  are  rocking  your  nest! 


74 


MY  JOSIE 

My  Josie  is  a  sonsy  lass, 

Dressed  so  fine,  so  trim,  so  bonny; 
The  lads  all  turn  to  see  her  pass, 

But  she'll  not  smile  to  ony. 

How  light  she  lifts  her  dainty  feet, 
Shaped  so  fair,  and  shod  so  neatly! 

No  lady  in  the  Upper  Street 
Can  tread  a  jig  so  featly. 

Her  little  hands  are  silky-fine. 

Soft  to  hold,  and  free  from  soiling; 

They  seem  a  bairn's  beside  of  mine 
That  are  but  fit  for  toiling. 

Before  my  door,  where  shines  the  sun, 
There  I  sit  and  mind  my  spinning; 

At  fall  of  dew  my  work  is  done. 
At  daybreak  just  beginning. 

Yet  none  can  say  my  house  within 
Fares  the  worse  for  other  labors; 

No  table-top  or  gleaming  tin 

But  shames  my  chatting  neighbors. 
75 


The  floor  is  kept,  for  Josie's  feet, 
Clean  and  fresh  as  fields  of  clover; 

A  door-sill  cannot  be  too  neat 
Where  floats  her  skirt-hem  over. 

All  hearts,  they  say,  grow  daft  with  years. 
Most  of  all  a  foolish  mother's; 

Yet  I  must  think  my  lass  appears 
As  winsome  unto  others. 

She  looked  within  her  cradle  mean 
Proudly  born  to  silks  and  laces; 

I  watched  my  bairn  and  dreamed  a  queen 
And  she  had  shifted  places. 

What  though  she  sails  the  street  at  noon. 
Idle  while  the  bees  are  humming; 

Her  days  of  toil  will  haste  full  soon; 
No  need  to  speed  their  coming! 

These  honest  hands  are  both  my  own; 

They  shall  keep  my  lassie's  tender. 
When  called  to  leave  her  here  alone 

Kind  Heaven  will  sure  befriend  her! 

A  poor  old  body  such  as  I 

Needs  to  save  with  care  unsparing; 
Yet  still  at  fairs  my  earnings  buy 

Brave  trinkets  for  her  wearing;  — 
76 


Gay  ribbons  for  her  pretty  throat, 
Silken  sashes,  muslin  posies, 

And  all  the  things  my  eyes  can  note 
On  shapes  as  fine  as  Josie's. 

And  thus  I  toil  that  she  may  shirk. 
Lightsome  songs  her  days  beguiling; 

'Tis  easy  for  old  hands  to  work, 
When  young  lips  do  the  smiling. 

Then  faster  whirl,  O  tardy  wheel! 

Stay,  O  sun,  your  steep  declining! 
This  slender  yarn  must  fill  the  reel 

Before  you  cease  your  shining! 


77 


THE  MID-DAY  MOON 

O  SHADOWY  moon,  with  your  great  hollow  eyes 
Wide-staring  at  noonday  down  over  the  plain, 

What  grief  can  you  know  in  your  vacant,  blue  skies 
To  wear  such  a  semblance  of  pain? 

Are  you  sad  at  beholding  our  swervings  from  truth, 
Fond  loves  unrequited,  and  hearts  growing  cold? 

Or,  sadder  than  all,  the  brave  dreams  of  our  youth 
Still  haunting  us  when  we  are  old? 

Alone  must  you  traverse  the  desolate  skies; 

But  happy  the  lot  where  you  strive  not  in  vain 
To  reach  the  warm  grasp  of  a  hand  that  still  lies 

Too  near,  yet  too  distant  to  gain ! 

Far  aloof,  on  the  sun's  glowing  pathway,  you  seem 
Stealing  ghostly  and  wan,  like  a  phantom  of  light; 

The  while,  under  waves  of  mid-ocean,  we  deem 
You  freshen  the  glories  of  night. 

Ah,  rather,  when  gloom  wraps  the  verdurous  ground, 
Enshrouding  dim  gardens,  and  bloom-laden  trees. 

Over  low  eastern  woods  swing  up  lustrous  and  round. 
Flooding  hillside  and  glimmering  seas! 
78 


Sail  high  over  alleys  where  young  lovers  walk, 
And  brighten  the  earth  to  their  rapturous  view! 

Then  silver  the  boughs  where  the  little  birds  talk 
Under  leaves,  snug  and  warm  from  the  dew! 

The  noon's  golden  splendor  no  shadow  allows; 

You  have  your  light  sorrows,  and  I  may  have  mine; 
But  turn  to  the  world  only  radiant  brows 

And  eyes  that  with  merriment  shine! 


79 


EARLY  AUTUMN 

A  YELLOW  elm-leaf  flutters  on  my  gown 

From  boughs  that  s-«-ing  above  me  full  and  green. 

Long  by  the  tangled  hedges  have  I  seen 
The  asters,  purple-pale;  and  starry  crown 
Of  clematis  o'er  alders  weighing  down; 

With  spikes  of  golden-rod  astir  between. 

Bright-winged,  the  butterflies  still  haunt  the  scene, 
And  bees  in  honeyed  bells  their  murmurs  drown; 
Through  hazy  heavens  the  fervid  suns  delay; 
And  who  could  dream  midsummer  glories  lost, 
When  autumn's  breath  such  blossoming  allows? 
O  faded  leaf,  first  herald  of  decay, 
You  wake  me,  prophesying  gloom  and  frost. 
And  sharp  airs  whistling  through  the  naked  boughs! 

Too  soon  ye  vanish,  wondrous  summer  days! 

Scarce  have  your  roses  dropped,  your  songsters  flown; 

And  still  o'er  rain-fed  grasses,  freshly  grown, 
An  airy  net  of  shadow  lifts  and  plays. 
Unsated  with  your  joys,  my  fancy  strays 

To  sunny  plots,  where  hollyhocks  full-blown 

Uprear  gay  minarets  by  alleys  lone. 
And  kingly  sunflowers  spread  their  golden  rays: 

80 


Dark  pansies,  velvet-lipped,  show  myriad  eyes; 
And  high  on  rocking  stems  bright  tulips  sway, 
And  poppies  toss,  aflame  with  fringes  fine. 
Fain  would  I  see,  ere  this  glad  season  flies, 
That  dear  old  garden,  many  miles  away. 
And  eyes  that  make  a  summer  where  they  shine! 


81 


LATE  AUTUMN 

How  slowly,  through  dallying  hours, 
Is  nature  maturing  her  blight ! 

'Twere  better  to  find  the  glad  summer 
Transformed  in  the  space  of  a  night: 

On  verdure  and  odorous  blossoms 
To  shut  drowsy  eyes  till  the  dawn. 

And  wake  to  the  crystalline  splendor 
And  hush  of  a  midwinter  morn; 

To  find  the  birds  flown  from  the  heavens, 
The  forests  all  shorn  at  a  blow; 

Ice  chilling  the  hearts  of  the  roses, 
And  butterflies  smothered  in  snow ! 

Ah,  rather  than  bear  the  slow  torture 
Of  watching  brave  visions  depart, 

I  sigh  for  a  frost  that  shall  curdle 
The  tides  of  a  passionate  heart! 


82 


HER  HOME 

Low  she  lies,  where  not  a  murmur 

Stirs  the  dreaming  air  -^nth  sound; 
Save  when  heavy  pine-boughs  trailing 
Make  a  soft,  continuous  wailing. 
As  they  sweep  the  ground. 

Scanty  gleams  and  drops  of  sunshine 

Through  the  shadows  float  and  play, 
Where  in  peacefulness  she  slumbers, 
Counting  not  the  weary  numbers 
That  make  up  the  day. 

Ghostly  whispers  from  the  pine-trees 
In  the  moonlight  still;  —  on  high, 
All  the  night,  the  lone  stars  keeping 
Solemn  watch  while  she  is  sleeping 
'Neath  the  midnight  sky. 

On  a  golden  day  in  autumn 

Sought  I  first  her  place  of  rest; 
Round  me  gentle  winds  were  stealing, 
Tender  as  the  pensive  feeling 
Stirring  in  my  breast. 
83 


Loving  hands  were  there  before  me 
Twining  garlands  o'er  the  tomb, 

Amaranth  and  myrtle  braided; 

But  they  now  hang  loose  and  faded; 
Spring  has  fresher  bloom. 

Where  the  little  maids  are  trooping 

After  May-buds  in  the  wood 
Let  me  pluck  with  them  the  flowers. 
Dewy-fresh  and  wet  with  showers. 
From  the  solitude. 

Whilst  they  tie  them  into  clusters, 

Sprinkling  lightsome  laugh  between, 
I  am  wearing  sombre  fancies, 
Like  unseen,  dark-throated  pansies, 
With  my  sunny  green. 

To  a  wreath  for  her  I  bind  them, 

Sitting  in  the  shade  apart; 
While  my  heart  among  them  lingers 
Slowly  move  my  trembling  fingers, 
Timing  with  my  heart. 

Softly,  in  the  mellow  twilight. 

We  will  hang  it  o'er  her  head; 
Flowers  fresh  we'll  strew  above  her, 
Wet  with  tears  of  those  who  love  her, 
Sorrowing  for  the  dead. 
84 


MISTRESS  MARY 

Now  you  think  you  know  me,  do  you? 

Pretty  charmer,  looking  wise ! 
Well,  it  may  be;  but  I  warn  you 

Trust  not  those  deluded  eyes! 
We  shall  see  their  merry  sparkle 

Fading  into  blank  surprise. 

When  with  smothered  sighs  I  languish, 
Chill  as  icebergs,  pale  as  snow. 

Then  you  say,  Some  bitter  anguish 
Finds  in  this  its  overflow! 

Never  will  you  guess  the  rapture 
Brooding  in  my  heart  below! 

When  unendmg  song  and  laughter 
Make  the  hours  swiftly  glide, 

You  will  smile  to  think  thereafter 
Such  delights  with  me  abide; 

Ah!  dear  child,  may  nothing  teach  you. 
What  despairs  the  heart  can  hide! 
85 


Now  you  think  you  read  me,  do  you? 

All  by  opposites  made  clear; 
Have  a  care !  for  since  I  knew  you 

I  have  fits  when  I'm  sincere; 
As  when  now  I  beg  you,  darling, 

Sit  up  closer! — there's  a  dear! 


86 


VANITY  FAIR 

AT    A   SUFFHAGE-BAZAAR,    IN   THE 
MUSIC   HALL,    BOSTON 

Clustered  banners  round  the  walls 
Lift  their  flaming  folds  on  high. 

Where,  beneath,  in  silken  halls. 
Little  maids  in  ambush  lie. 

Gay  pagodas  filled  with  flowers. 
Pennons  floating  overhead; — 

Art  and  nature  deck  the  bowers 

Where  their  shining  nets  are  spread. 

Grand  Beethoven's  dreams  are  o'er, 
While  the  merry  throng  is  nigh: 

Proud  Apollo  hears  no  more 

Arrows  hurtling  through  the  sky; 

For,  encamped  beneath  their  feet, 
Gypsy  girls  in  pretty  booths 

Sit  and  fleece,  with  chatter  sweet, 
Troops  of  glad,  bewildered  youths. 
87 


Crimps  and  curls  and  ribbons  fine. 
Jaunty  cap  and  gay  cockades. 

Marshalled  thus  in  gleaming  line, 
Smile  these  captivating  maids. 

Trust  them  not,  they're  full  of  guile ! 

In  their  bright,  enticing  eyes 
Mischief  lurks,  and  every  smile 

Is  a  danger  in  disguise. 

Sirens  are  they;  while  you  hear 

All  their  winning  voices  tell. 
Dimes  and  dollars  disappear: 

Even  hearts  obey  their  spell. 

Would  you  fatal  wreck  escape, 

Shun  such  dazzling  coasts  as  these! 

Sight  the  stars  and  clear  the  cape. 
Cruising  to  the  open  seas! 

There,  beneath  the  polar  star, 

Prajang  to  the  Powers  di\ane, 
Glance  not  back,  to  see  afar, 

Through  the  mist,  their  splendors  shine! 

Ah!  wise  heart,  advice  is  vain! 

Youth  and  Love  vnll  have  their  way; 
Since  they  win  what  Truth  would  gain, 

Leave  them  to  their  pretty  play ! 
88 


RENUNCIATION 

Singing,  I  wove  my  garland  well, 

Nor  brushed  the  dew  from  leaf  or  spray; 

But,  while  I  wove,  the  petals  fell, 
And  shattered  all  their  beauty  lay. 

These  fade,  I  said,  they  have  no  root! 

And  straightway  planted  me  a  bower; 
I  watched  its  lusty  branches  shoot 

And  twine  and  tangle,  hour  by  hour. 

"Now  here,  at  length,  is  my  content; 

These  buds  shall  blossom  evermore;" 
And  bending  low  my  head,  I  went 

To  enter  through  the  breezy  door : 

But  coiled  upon  a  mossy  bed. 

There,  in  the  bower  of  my  desire, 

A  serpent  reared  his  angry  head. 

With  hissing  tongue  and  eyes  of  fire. 

From  nature  driven,  I  sought  a  room 
With  rosy  splendors  warmly  lined; 

Its  flood  of  light  dispelled  the  gloom. 
And  music  drowned  the  plaintive  wind. 
89 


"Now  here  I  drink  to  Love  and  Fame!" 
And  gayly  swung  my  beaker  high; 

But  Sorrow!  and  An  empty  name! 
Came  echoed  sadly  in  reply. 

Have  done,  mistaken  soul!  I  cried, 

Nor  plead,  when  fortune  sayp  thee  nay ! 

Go !  welcome  whatsoe'er  betide, 

And  where  fate  threatens,  lead  the  way ! 

Then  out  upon  a  desert  bleak, 

With  trackless  sands  and  wind-swept  skies, 
I  wandered,  desolate  and  weak, 

Renouncing  Hope's  enticing  lies. 

But  when  the  sunset  flushed  across 
Long,  level  wastes  of  sullen  lands. 

An  angel  bent,  to  soothe  my  loss, 

And  clasped  my  palms  in  loving  hands. 

We  dwell  together,  since  she  came  — 
We  two,  upon  that  lonely  shore; 

And  I  have  learned  to  bless  her  name  — 
A  name  so  terrible  of  yore. 

Yet  sometimes,  when  the  soft  winds  blow, 

I  weary  of  her  saintly  eyes, 
And  crave  the  past,  and  dread  to  grow, 

From  all  her  teachings,  old  and  wise! 
90 


TO  A   VENERABLE  TEACHER 


The  victor's  brows,  in  haughty  triumph,  wear 

Full,  rustling  bays,  which  mortal  fingers  twine 

For  valor's  quick  reward:  but  fairer  shine 
The  laurels  growing  in  that  upper  air 
Where  none  may  wander  free,  and  none  may  tear 

One  leaf  for  guerdon  till  the  gods  design. 

Not  every  soul  shall  hear  their  call  divine: 
They  beckon  whom  they  will  to  enter  there, 

Through  death's  dread  portal,  from  the  life  below. 
And  he  alone  is  crowned  with  joy  at  last 

Who  lived  for  others,  seeking  no  renown. 
Long  may  thy  laurels  ripen,  ere  thou  go. 

Wise  teacher  of  the  generations  past, 
To  pluck  from  them  thine  own  appointed  crown! 

II 

And  when  at  length,  in  that  far  altitude 

Earth's  echoes  reach  thee  from  remembered  days, 
In  one  full  chorus  shall  ascend  the  praise 
Of  glad  hearts,  conscious  that  whate'er  of  good 
And  brave  endeavor  blessed  their  eager  youth, 
Whate'er  of  steady  vision  cleared  their  gaze, 
91 


Came  from  thy  guidance,  when,  through  doubtful 
ways. 
Thy  voice  was  wisdom,  and  thy  counsel  truth. 

And  sweet  as  words  all  broken  on  the  gale 
From  lips  of  friends,  in  final  parting  sent, 

\Miile  we  sail  out  forever  from  their  shore; 
So  sweet,  to  thee,  in  that  embowered  vale 

Where  thou  shalt  dwell,  in  endless,  calm  content. 
Will  float  these  echoes  from  the  friends  of  yore! 


92 


ON  LEAVING  THE  VILLA  BELVIDERE 

AT   CASTELLAMARE,   ITALY, 

AFTER  A  LONG  STAY 

You  ask  the  charm  of  Castellamare; 

Yet  seek  where  fairer  mountains  rise! 
Where,  under  heavens  deep  and  starry, 

So  fierce  a  splendor  shames  the  skies, 
As  that  which  pales  both  moon  and  star. 
When  red  Vesuvius  flames  afar! 

Go  seek  where  bluer  violets  grow. 
Clustered  beneath  the  tufted  pines! 

Where  richer  sunsets  melt  and  glow 
Along  the  snow-clad  Apennines! 

Or  where  the  clouds  so  lightly  sweep 

Their  misty  fringes  o'er  the  steep! 

What  roads  so  fair  can  lead  us  down 
To  sister-cities  famed  of  yore,  — 

To  near  Pompeii's  silent  town. 
Or  bright  Sorrento's  sunny  shore? 

What  pathways  bathed  in  softer  lights 

Can  lure  our  feet  to  braver  heights? 
93 


Shelved  under  Quisisana's  palace, 
Set  proudly  on  its  mountain-wall, 

Above  the  bay-encircling  valleys, 
With  dark  Vesuvius  crowning  all. 

There,  shining  on  its  upland  crest, 

Our  villa  fronts  the  glowing  west. 

The  ghost  that  walks  its  moonlit  terrace 
Must  pause  to  view  the  sleeping  scene,  — 

The  ruined  tower,  beloved  of  fairies, 

The  anchored  ships,  the  vineyards  green; 

Then  stoop  to  hail,  in  whispers  slow. 

The  Stabian  ghosts  that  wait  below. 

No  charms  can  hold  us,  Belvidere, 

Forever  in  thy  happy  home! 
I  leave  thy  converse,  bright  and  merry 

To  view  the  grander  scenes  of  Rome: 
Yet,  leaving  thee,  I  leave  behind 
Sweet  leisure  and  a  quiet  mind! 

March,  1884. 


94 


AN  ANSWER 

TO   R.    E.    B. 

Thou  leanest  on  a  broken  reed, 

0  heart,  that  askest  aid  of  mine! 
The  soul  that  faints  from  utter  need 

Can  have  no  strength  to  succor  thine! 

Is  fate  to  thee  so  strangely  kind. 
So  rich  in  sympathies  sincere. 

That  thus  thou  flingest  to  the  wind 
The  loyal  souls  that  held  thee  dear? 

Well,  be  it  so,  since  thou  hast  willed ! 

And  time,  lone  time  that  is  to  be 
And  dreary  distance,  —  these  shall  build 

A  wall  of  stone  twixt  thee  and  me! 

And,  late  or  soon,  atoning  years 
Shall  brim  thy  life  with  love  divine  I 

And  I,  —  no  matter;  some  few  tears 
Are  good  for  hearts  as  hard  as  mine. 

But  when  my  days  seem  nearly  through, 

And  all  their  struggles  far  and  faint. 
And  culled  from  out  my  treasures  few 

1  take  thy  dear,  melodious  plaint; 

95 


Friends,  knowing  naught,  will  look  surprise, 
And  I,  perchance,  shall  marvel  more. 

At  hot  tears  raining  from  my  eyes. 
As  when  I  read  it  first,  of  yore. 

For  then,  as  now,  forever  true 

To  words  once  heard  with  bated  breath. 
In  fancy  shall  my  heart  renew 

A  friendship  plighted  unto  death! 


96 


REMEMBRANCE 

I  KNOW  a  dear  place  where  my  heart  longs  to  be, 
When  summer  returns,  with  her  halcyon  weather; 

I  know  a  dear  face  it  were  rapture  to  see; 

And  both  I  should  find  in  the  northland  together. 

Winds  blow  from  the  east,  and  they  blow  from  the 
west. 

But  none  of  them  brings  me  a  favoring  breeze: 
So  I  turn  my  light  barque  from  the  land  that  is  best. 

And  sail  far  away  on  the  limitless  seas. 

Full  stately  and  fair  are  the  ships  that  I  greet, 
And  kind  the  bluff  voices  that  answer  me  well; 

But  I  walk,  in  my  dreams,  where  the  meadows  are 
sweet. 
And  listen  to  hear  what  no  mariners  tell. 

O  place,  never  change  while  I  wander  and  stay! 

O  face,  never  lose  the  dear  look  that  I  prize! 
Let  me  find,  when  I  come,  on  some  happier  day. 

The  same  blooming  meadows  and  welcoming  eyes! 


97 


THE  BIRDS  AND  I 

I  STROLLED  within  the  greenwood 

To  sigh  my  grief  away; 
But  all  the  birds  upon  the  trees 

Kept  up  a  roundelay; 
How  could  I  choose  but  listen  then 

To  hear  what  they  should  say? 

Their  bosoms  throbbed  for  gladness; 

And  ere  their  songs  were  through 
The  sprays  were  rocking  to  their  feet, 

As  if  a  storm-gust  blew; 
And  when  they  shook  their  music  out, 

Down  rained  the  drops  of  dew. 

An  apple-tree  in  blossom 

Blushed  through  an  open  glade; 

A  bobolink  was  tilting  there; 
And  such  a  noise  he  made 

The  little  woodbirds  held  their  peace, 
Half  crazed  and  half  afraid. 

Then  pealed  a  blackbird's  carol, 

As  on  a  bush  he  swung; 
His  bliss  he  told,  his  notes  outroUed, 
98 


Till  all  the  meadows  rung; 
And  still  he  moved  his  trembling  wings, 
Half-flying  as  he  sung. 

So  bold  a  little  sparrow 

Came  tripping  to  my  side! 
So  quick  he  wiped  his  tiny  bill, 

And  oped  his  eyes  so  wide! 
Then  stayed  to  chirp  the  sweetest  note 

That  ever  sparrow  tried! 

Aloft  the  busy  swallows 

Sailed  singing  from  the  west; 

A  robin  tweeted  to  himself, 
The  while  he  built  his  nest; 

And  e'en  the  crows  that  cawed  afar 
Made  music  with  the  rest. 

My  heart  it  seemed  so  wicked 

To  sigh  on  such  a  day ! 
But  still  it  ached  and  pained  me  sore, 

Though  all  the  earth  was  gay; 
Oh  then  I  wished  I  were  a  bird, 

To  sing  my  grief  away! 


WITHOUT  AND   WITHIN 

I  WALKED  ankle-deep  in  the  new-fallen  snow, 

And  stood  in  amaze  on  the  wold, 
To  hear  how  a  bird  from  a  desolate  bough 

Was  singing,  in  spite  of  the  cold: 
Little  thought  of  the  wind  or  the  weather  had  he. 
For  it  seemed  that  his  bosom  was  bursting  with  glee. 

No  midsummer  carol  was  ever  so  sweet, 

With  swells  and  with  jubilant  closes; 
I  thought,  while  he  sung,  there  was  grass  at  my  feet 

And  the  hedges  were  crimson  with  roses; 
When  I  had  but  to  turn  from  my  wo^ider  to  see 
White  gusts  of  the  tempest  sweep  over  the  lea. 

The  faster  the  wind  whirled  the  eddying  snow 
The  louder  he  sang  through  the  storm; 

No  touch  of  the  shivering  blast  did  he  know. 
For  his  rapture  was  keeping  him  warm. 

O  brave  little  bird  on  the  desolate  tree, 

Did  you  know  that  my  heart  sang  a  paean  with  thee? 


100 


A  LESSON  FROM  THE   STARS 

Annie,  walking  in  the  meadow, 
Asked  me,  in  her  childish  way, 

TMiat  the  silver  stars  were  doing, 
All  the  live-long  day. 

Thoughtfully  I  made  her  answer  — 
Little  Annie,  maiden  mine. 

Starlights  know  no  rest  from  duty; 
Day  and  night  they  shine ! 

'Tis  not  theirs  to  mark  the  sunlight, 
Sweeping  gayly  through  the  skies; 

Steadily,  in  depths  of  azure. 
Burn  their  restless  eyes! 

Come  and  learn  a  lesson,  Annie;  — 
Still  to  keep  your  course  the  same 

In  the  path  that  God  hath  given, 
Heeding  praise  nor  blame! 

Conscious  that  One  Eye  is  watching. 
Seek  from  man  no  swift  reward ! 

Satisfied  with  acting  nobly, 
Leave  the  rest  to  God! 
101 


»•»  •      •  » 


IN  THE   GRAVE 

The  merry  month  of  spring  has  come, 

Art  thou  not  glad,  my  Love? 
Dost  feel  the  timid  wind-flower  quiver? 
Dost  hear  the  plashing  of  the  river? 

Dost  know  May  reigns  above? 

The  skies  are  full  of  singing  birds; 

I  come  to  seek  thee,  Love! 
The  grasses  stir  at  my  soft  tread; 
Thou'lt  feel  them  thrilling  overhead, 

And  know  I  wait  above. 

Then  hasten  forth !  thine  eyes  are  blue 

And  clearer  than  the  day; 
The  grave  suits  not  a  queenly  maiden, 
With  cheek  aglow  and  heart  love-laden; 

Come  out  and  greet  the  May! 

Leave  hoary  hairs  to  mix  with  dust ! 

Join  thou  our  world  above! 
Spring  flowers  bloom  fast  in  sunny  weather; 
We'll  have  a  merry  time  together; 

Why  tarry  there,  my  Love? 


102 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE 

All  day  I  dream  —  If  my  Beloved  come, 
These  burning  eyes  their  sweet  despair  must  tell. 
And  flash  their  meaning,  though  my  lips  be  dumb, 
I  love  my  Love  so  well! 

All  night  I  wish  the  happy  morn  were  near. 
That  I  might  ease  this  heart's  tumultuous  swell, 
And  own  the  secret  that  he  longs  to  hear; 
I  love  my  Love  so  well! 

By  night,  by  day,  whether  I  wake  or  dream. 
This  one  fond  thought  maintains  its  tyrant  spell; 
All  sights  and  sounds  but  empty  shadows  seem; 
I  love  my  Love  so  well! 

Brave  in  the  light,  at  length  he  passes  by, 
Smiling  to  greet  me;  but  my  looks  rebel; 
In  vain  I  chide  my  glances;  they  deny 
I  love  my  Love  so  well. 

Where  joy  sat  beaming,  angry  flashes  rise. 

And  hate  looks  out,  where  tender  yearnings  dwell; 

Sharp  scorn  leaps  boldly  into  cruel  eyes 

That  love  their  Love  so  well. 
103 


Perchance  his  soul  shall  gladden  when  he  hears, 
In  after-time,  some  flippant  charmer  tell 
Her  shallow  passion;  while,  unguessed  for  years, 
I  love  my  Love  so  well. 

O  coward  heart,  once  treacherous  and  weak, 
Be  strong  and  proud  to  bear  thy  later  fate! 
When  his  heart  fails  thee,  see  thou  dost  not  speak 
Thy  lone  despair  too  late! 


104 


CHLORIS 

You  will  not  smile;  though  all  the  while, 

With  many  a  playful  art  and  wile, 

I  seek  your  glances  to  beguile. 

An  air-blown  kiss  my  fingers  throw 

Straight  to  your  window;  bending  low 

You  watch  your  needle  come  and  go. 

I  lift  a  rose,  so  silky-cold, 

With  petals  curving,  fold  on  fold, 

To  hide  its  heart  of  threaded  gold, 

And  touch  your  cheek;  you  will  not  turn, 

But  all  my  fond  allurements  spurn: 

Though  deeper  still  your  blushes  burn. 

Then,  when  no  answering  look  I  gain, 

Unsolaced  for  my  bosom's  pain, 

I  trill  a  parting  love-refrain, 

And  cease  to  wing  such  shafts  as  these; 

Since,  sitting  in  your  bower  of  ease. 

You  flout  my  every  wish  to  please. 

The  years  will  pass;  and  you  will  say, 
Hereafter,  on  some  empty  day. 
When  youth's  bright  charms  have  flown  away,- 
105 


Oh  could  those  hours  return  once  more, 
When  CoHn,  idling  at  my  door, 
Seemed  love's  sweet  favors  to  implore ! 

I  shall  not  pluck  the  roses  then; 
But  sitting  in  the  haunts  of  men, 
With  secrets  hid  beyond  their  ken, 
And  hope's  vain  longings  colder  grown, 
My  curling  lips  shall  lightly  own 
That  man  lives  happiest  alone. 

They  will  not  see,  you  will  not  know 
How,  later,  when  the  heavens  glow 
With  stars,  abroad  I  saunter  slow; 
And  voicing  then  my  lone  despair, 
Unheard,  upon  the  evening  air, 
I  breathe  for  you  my  fondest  prayer! 


106 


SONNET 

Dearest,  when  through  the  paths  of  life  I  move, 

And  note  the  ways  of  men,  and  hear  expressed 
The  aims  that  tower  their  little  lives  above, 

Life  seems  to  me  so  weakly  false  at  best 
I'd  gladly  throw  it  by,  could  I  but  prove 

My  soul  to  pass  into  a  dreamless  rest. 
But  when  thou  homeward  bring'st  thy  deep,  strong 
love. 

Like  royal  gift,  to  make  my  being  blest, 
And  show'st  how  pure  a  nature,  like  a  dove, 

Doth  deeply  dwell  within  thy  troubled  breast. 
Then  know  I,  men  are  nobler  than  they  seem; 

That  tender  hearts  lie  underneath  the  strife, 
And  only  need  the  touch  of  love's  warm  beam 

To  stir  their  pulses  into  joyous  life. 


107 


IDLE  NAN 

Heigh-ho  I  Summer  days  are  so  pleasant  and  long! 

But  no  one  is  idle  like  me; 
Where  I  lie  in  the  grass  I  can  see  a  whole  throng 

Of  ants  toiling  under  the  tree; 
And  swift  through  the  sky  the  fleet  birds  hurry  by, 

And  the  clouds  sail  out  over  the  sea. 

With  wings  all  awhirr,  at  the  tall  hollyhocks 
Bright  humming-birds  dart  to  and  fro; 

In  her  plain  suit  of  black,  over  trim  garden-walks. 
The  cricket  makes  oflf,  down  below; 

For  little  she  heeds  that  in  full  mourning  weeds 
She  should  never  a-\'isiting  go. 

The  butterfly  shows  me  her  gay  satin  cloak 

Every  day,  when  the  weather  is  fair; 
With  spots  and  deep  bordering  trimmed  to  the  yoke, 

As  fine  as  a  princess  could  wear; 
But  for  all  she  is  dressed  in  her  holiday -best, 

She  finds  not  a  minute  to  spare. 

She  may  lift  her  light  wings  for  a  second  or  more, 

When  a  thistle  is  spread  in  her  way, 
To  daintily  step  o'er  its  wide,  purple  floor,  — 
108 


But,  whisk!  she  is  up  from  her  play, 
As  if  she  kqew.  well  that  the  faster  she  flew 
The  more  she  could  do  in  a  day. 

Over  there  by  the  wall  goes  a  big,  burly  bee, 
Into  trumpets  of  bloom  treading  down. 

Till  his  black  velvet  breeches  are  dust  to  the  knee, 
And  he  reels  like  a  tipsy  young  clown; 

While  the  whole  blossom  shakes  with  the  pother  he 
makes, 
As  though  he  were  storming  a  town. 

I  wish,  when  all  other  small  folks  are  abed, 

And  he  lingers  so  late  in  the  bowers. 
Some  gay  morning-glory  would  twist  o'er  his  head. 

Where  he  drains  the  last  cup  of  the  flowers. 
And  hold  him  all  night,  just  to  give  him  a  fright. 

And  teach  him  to  keep  early  hours. 

Heigh-ho!  Summer  days  are  so  terribly  long! 

I  wonder  when  this  will  be  through ! 
The  bobolinks  long  ago  finished  their  song, 

And  the  four-o'clocks  open  anew. 
If  life  be  like  this  I  shall  weary  of  bliss, 

And  wish  I  had  something  to  do. 


109 


CASTANETS 

Where  a  fountain's  pearly  shiver 
Cools  a  garden-court,  I  lie; 

And  my  soul  to  dreams  deliver, 
Gazing  off  with  drowsy  eye. 

Scarcely  yet  a  damsel  heeding, 
Dancing  forth  in  silken  robes; 

O'er  the  checkered  pavement  speeding, 
Light  as  down  from  thistle-globes. 

Clear  above  the  water's  plashing 
Strike  her  foot-falls  on  the  ground; 

To  and  fro  her  white  arms,  flashing, 
Fling  on  high  a  rhythmic  sound. 

Truce  to  dreams  and  idle  napping. 
When  she  nears  the  fountain-jets ! 

O'er  her  head  so  wildly  clapping 
Castanets,  her  castanets. 

All  her  garment's  shifting  fringes 
Slant  and  shudder,  swaying  free; 

Clinging,  where  her  skirt  impinges 
Sharp  across  her  flying  knee. 
110 


Wrapt  her  eye  in  heedful  trances, 
Shaping  every  bend  aright; 

Guiding  well  the  soft  advances. 
Languishing,  as  lovers  might. 

Gliding,  floating,  downward  sweeping. 
Poised  aloft  on  arching  toes. 

Melody  with  motion  keeping. 
O'er  the  marble  floor  she  goes. 

Faster  beat  her  throbbing  fingers. 
Faster  spin  her  twinkling  feet; 

Held  in  air  the  vision  lingers 
When  her  mazy  whirls  retreat. 

Vain  your  lures,  your  wily  dances! 

Spanish  eyes  are  not  for  me! 
Since  my  true-love's  modest  glances 

Hold  a  charm  unknown  to  thee! 


Ill 


THE  PRINCESS 

He  spake  no  word,  though  oft  I  heard 

From  other  lips  impassioned  vows; 
He  sang  no  ballads  in  my  praise; 
They  charmed  me  all  the  summer  days; 

Yet  wintertide 
Found  each  home-sheltered  with  a  bride. 

While  he,  dear  heart,  stood  there  apart. 

And  turned  away  adoring  looks; 
When  dark-browed  suitors  swore  ^\'ith  tears 
I  heard  their  plea  with  pitying  ears; 

But  eyes  of  blue 
Had  pledged  me  vows  more  deep  and  true. 

Lovers  have  flown;  and  all  unknown 

Is  that  far  region  where  he  stays; 
Yet  this  assurance  fills  my  breast, 
That  soon,  from  out  the  glowing  west, 

My  Love  shall  turn. 
With  lips  that  speak,  when  glances  burn. 


112 


BY  RIGHT  DIVINE 

I  SING  of  a  king 
Who  never  yet  sat  on  a  throne. 

Who  claims  no  proud  line 

For  his  clear  right  divine, 
But  rules  by  a  grace  of  his  own. 

The  fame  of  his  name 
Never  rang  through  a  court  or  a  camp; 

No  neighboring  realm 

Do  his  arms  overwhelm, 
No  coins  bear  his  sovereign  stamp. 

But  few  ever  drew 
Such  homage  and  worship  as  he; 

Yet  no  servile  crowd  waits 

At  his  wide  palace-gates, 
And  he  sees  not  a  suppliant  knee. 

I  sing  of  a  king. 
Though  boasting  no  honors  like  these; 

Though  no  heralds  proclaim 

Peace  or  war  in  his  name. 
And  no  ships  bear  his  flag  on  the  seas. 
113 


Such  state  in  his  gait 

That  scarce  would  you  wonder  to  hear 
Pealing  guns  rend  the  air, 
And  blown  trumpets  declare 

That  an  emperor  slowly  drew  near! 

There  lies  in  his  eyes 
So  gracious  and  tender  a  light! 

Whether  gray,  black,  or  blue 

Means  but  little  to  you. 
Since  you  never  will  read  them  aright. 

Alone  on  his  throne 

Would  a  king  ever  hunger  for  love? 
When  it  suits  him,  I  ween, 
Will  he  choose  him  a  queen. 

And  crown  her  all  women  above. 

'Tis  plain  his  domain 

Is  no  province,  nor  isle  of  the  sea: 
To  tell  I'm  not  bound 
Where  his  kingdom  is  found, 

And  no  one  can  know  it  but  me! 


114 


MICKIE   BROWN 

What  roguish  little  maid  are  you, 

With  fun  and  laughter  brimming  over? 

Who  stole  your  eyes  from  Heaven's  blue. 
And  gave  you  breath  of  scented  clover? 

You  may  be  sprite  or  soulless  eK; 

You  surely  were  not  meant  for  human; 
This  dimpled  bit  you  call  yourself 

Can  never  spoil  into  a  woman. 

You  shake  at  me  your  mimic  fists, 

And  arch  your  brows  in  pretty  scorning; 

Did  you  learn  motion  of  the  mists 

That  floated  o'er  the  hills  this  morning? 

Your  feet  are  soaked  with  early  dews, 
Your  hair  is  filled  with  seeds  and  grasses; 

The  little  folk  should  give  you  shoes, 
If  they  will  drop  you  in  morasses! 

Come,  let  me  smooth  that  tangled  curl. 
And  stroke  your  cheek  so  full  and  downy! 

In  vain  you  call  yourself  a  girl; 
I  know  you  for  a  little  Brownie! 
115 


PRINCE  JAMIE 

Ah,  Jamie,  you  are  brave  and  true! 

And  if  I  were  a  queen 
No  prouder  little  prince  than  you 

Should  in  my  realms  be  seen: 
I'd  give  you  half  my  gems  and  gold, 
And  lands  and  titles  manifold. 

Six  famous  orders  you  should  wear 

Across  your  velvet  coat; 
A  crown,  to  match  your  shining  hair, 

And  laces  round  j'our  throat; 
With  diamond  buckles  at  your  knee. 
To  sparkle  when  you  bent  to  me. 

The  world  should  see  a  goodly  sight 
When  forth  we  rode  in  state! 

For  crowds  would  gather,  left  and  right, 
Huzzahing  at  the  gate; 

And  mounted  lords  should  prance  before, 

And  gallop  by  the  carriage-door. 

In  robes  of  ermine,  white  as  milk. 

We  two  would  sit  in  pride; 
While  lovely  ladies,  all  in  silk, 

Were  ranged  on  either  side, 
116 


And  courtiers,  bowing  from  the  room. 
Swept  wide  the  floor  with  hat  and  plume. 

But  oh,  how  glad  we  both  should  be 

To  find  ourselves  alone! 
That  we  might  spring,  so  blithe  and  free, 

From  out  the  stately  throne. 
And  skip  and  dance,  for  very  joy! 
As  here  we  go,  —  Your  hand,  my  boy! 


117 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 

Dreaming,  I  toiled  to  gain  a  dizzy  steep. 

And  stood,  at  length,  where  gleaming  battlements 

Towered  above,  along  a  sky  of  pearl. 

My  faint  hand  reached  to  ope  the  massive  door. 

Exultant  that  my  weary  life  was  done. 

My  soul  by  penance  cleansed  from  every  taint. 

Then  stood  before  me  one  that  I  had  loved, 

With  eyes  so  soft,  and  hair  of  sunny  gold. 

And  warm  arms  reaching  toward  me;  and  he  cried 

Oh  tarry.  Love,  a  little,  little  while. 

Ere  you  go  in,  and  leave  me  here  for  aye! 

In  your  lone  heaven  the  years  shall  know  no  end; 

And  one  brief  hour  you  well  might  spare  to  me ! 

His  dear  eyes  won  me;  for  I  oft  had  gazed 

Down  through  their  splendors,  when  aglow  with  youth. 

And  so  I  turned  to  stroll  beneath  the  walls. 

All  day  we  wandered,  hand  in  hand,  and  glad; 
And  when  night  came,  we  clung,  to  keep  us  warm. 
Closer  together,  looking  at  the  stars: 
And  morning  found  us  smiling  towards  the  east. 

And  all  the  while  did  many  enter  in, 
Foot-sore,  pale-featured,  but  with  Triumph  writ. 
In  flashing  halos,  o'er  their  haggard  brows. 

118 


And  now  I  nevermore  approach  the  door, 
Nor  dare  to  bid  Good-bye  to  my  poor  Love, 
Nor  wish  a  Heaven  where  he  may  never  come. 
Nor  sigh  for  bUss  beyond  those  awful  gates! 
O  dreadful  dream,  to  seem  so  sweet  to  me! 


119 


TO  A   SWALLOW,   FLYING   SEAWARD 

Bird  of  the  slanting  M'ing  and  circling  flight, 

Why  seek  the  billows,  when  the  brooklet  plays 

In  loitering  eddies,  under  willow-sprays, 
And  tender  shoots  reach  toward  the  blissful  light? 
Hast  thou  not  heard  these  messengers  aright 

That  bring  us  tidings  of  the  April  days? 

Beneath  damp  leaves,  along  the  woodland  ways. 
The  violet  stirs,  and  mayflower-buds  are  bright. 

But  the  lone  bird,  soaring  amid  the  gleams 
From  riven  clouds,  had  dreams  of  daffodils 

In  lands  remote,  where  bannered  Iris  rose 
Amid  her  lances,  by  beleagured  streams; 

To  his  high  vision  shone  far  grassy  hills. 
And  pallid  edelweis  on  Alpine  snows. 


120 


THE   HARVEST  OF  LIFE 

Low  sweeps  the  breeze  o'er  sodden  lands, 
Where  grasses  shiver  in  the  rain; 

And  bare  and  brown  the  stubble  shows, 
Where  waved  the  bearded  grain. 

The  birds  that  trilled  the  songs  I  love 
Went  flying  south,  one  chilly  morn; 

The  flowers  that  spread  their  bloom  for  me 
Died,  loveless  and  forlorn. 

Yet  still  I  sing  in  full  content; 

For  other,  blessed  fields  are  mine; 
And  there,  beneath  unclouded  moons. 

My  golden  harvests  shine. 

Through  sun  and  rain,  in  lands  remote. 
They  ripen  all  the  iervid  years; 

And  now,  in  late  autumnal  dews, 
They  swell  their  tasselled  ears. 

Their  leaves  like  silken  pennons  float. 
When  lightly  skims  a  passing  breeze; 

And  o'er  their  slopes  bright  billows  run. 
Like  waves  on  sunlit  seas. 
121 


Full  oft,  beneath  the  hunter's  moon, 
I  take  my  sickle-blade,  and  stroll 

Through  silent  lanes  to  where  their  ranks 
Stand  crowning  hill  and  knoll. 

So  brave  they  look,  so  tall  they  rise. 
So  softly  there  I  hear  them  grow. 

In  pride  I  bless  the  rustling  land. 
And  home,  unladen,  go. 

But,  late  or  soon,  the  word  shall  come 
To  spare  my  harvest-fields  no  more; 

To  give  to  winnowing  winds  the  chaff, 
And  heap  the  shining  store. 

Then  white-sleeved  reapers,  all  arow, 
Shall  swing  their  level  scythes  in  time; 

The  grain  to  music  bend  and  fall: 
But  none  shall  hear  their  chime! 

No  eye  shall  watch  them  bind  the  sheaves, 
And  bear  them  in,  when  daylight  pales; 

No  villager,  on  lonely  roads. 
Shall  hear  their  beating  flails. 

Guard  well  my  fields,  propitious  fate, 
Lest  mildew's  evil  taint  may  blast! 

From  hailstones  shield  them,  that  they  yield 
Ripe  treasures  at  the  last! 
122 


THE   DEPARTING   YEAR 

He  came;  he  brought  us  meadow-bloom  and  grasses, 
And  bird-songs  carroUing  the  heavens  through; 

Now  not  a  green  blade  flutters  as  he  passes. 
Nor  stays  one  thrush  to  hymn  a  sweet  adieu. 

Dry,  rattling  stalks  and  clumps  of  frozen  rushes 
Are  all  that  tremble  to  his  parting  tread; 

From  cottage-windows  where  the  home-light  flushes 
No  face  looks  out,  no  last  farewell  is  said. 

Bare  are  the  walls  where  blushed  his  garden-roses, 
And  bare  the  tree-boughs  swaying  o'er  the  lawn; 

The  grape-vine  lattice  not  a  leaf  discloses. 
And  no  late  watcher  sighs  that  he  is  gone;  — 

Gone  with  the  beauty  of  the  summer  morning, 
The  dreamy  loveliness  of  vanished  days. 

The  sky's  soft  glory  and  the  earth's  adorning, 
June's  rosy  light  and  autumn's  mellow  haze! 

I  begged,  when  first  he  shone  with  lavish  splendor, 
A  prince  triumphant,  come  to  rule  his  own. 

That  he  some  token  of  his  grace  would  render 
To  me,  a  suppliant,  on  his  bounty  thrown! 
123 


He  bent  and  proffered,  without  stint  or  measure. 
The  utmost  that  my  daring  words  could  crave. 

With  full  arms  closing  round  each  hoarded  treasure 
My  lips  forgot  to  bless  the  hand  that  gave. 

He  made  the  evening  glad,  the  sunrise  golden. 
And  all  existence  richer  that  he  came; 

Yet  scarcely  finds  my  spirit,  thus  beholden, 
The  time  to  weave  this  chaplet  to  his  name. 

O  kingly  giver,  old  and  unattended. 

The  world's  poor  gratitude  is  not  for  thee! 

It  leaves  unsung  the  reign  so  nearly  ended. 
And  turns  to  hail  the  king  that  is  to  be! 


124 


MEMORIES  OF  NORTHERN 
SPAIN 

When  Fancy  wills,  the  scenes  of  old 
Return,  to  bless  my  sight  again; 

And  then  in  visions  I  behold 

The  hills,  the  shores  of  Northern  Spain. 

In  lonely  valleys,  cool  and  still. 

Beneath  the  Pyrenees  I  fare, 
And  feel  on  lifted  brows  the  chill 

Of  snow-wrapped  summits  high  in  air. 

The  surf  rolls  white  on  Biscay's  shore; 

Green  on  her  cliffs  the  forests  wave; 
Guernica's  oak  I  greet  once  more, 

And  Covadonga's  sacred  cave. 

Asturia,  home  of  liberty! 

Thou  ne'er  hast  worn  a  tyrant's  chain! 
Thy  Gothic  sons,  redeemed  and  free, 

First  brought  deUverance  to  Spain! 

On  stern  Galicia's  rock-bound  shore 
The  beacons  flame  against  the  sky; 

Far  out,  the  whitening  breakers  roar, 
By  reefs  where  sea-gulls  wheel  and  cry. 
125 


No  more  within  Coruna's  bay 

War's  gathered  fleets  at  anchor  ride; 

Past  Vigo,  swooping  on  their  prey, 
No  Drake  and  Raleigh  skim  the  tide. 

The  wars  are  waged;  the  captains  sleep; 

The  ships  at  Cadiz  rock  at  ease: 
Had  we  such  contests  on  the  deep 

Would  souls  as  valiant  sweep  the  seas? 

Inland,  how  sweet  the  sunlit  air. 

On  slopes  where  blossom  heath  and  thyme! 
I  turn,  with  staff  and  scallop,  where 

The  bells  of  Compostella  chime. 

And,  pilgrim  still,  I  saunter  down 
Past  convent-tower  and  Roman  wall. 

To  greet,  above  the  crumbling  town, 
Leon's  Cathedral,  fair  and  tall; 

Nor  heed  what  scenes  are  left  behind. 
Though  famed  in  chronicle  and  song. 

Till  learning's  cloistered  halls  I  find. 
Where  Salamanca's  students  throng. 

Toledo,  like  an  aged  queen, 

Of  love  bereft,  with  glory  crowned, 

Forsaken  of  her  court  is  seen. 

While  embassies  her  throne  surround. 
126 


The  lordly  Tagus  at  her  feet 

Rolls  silent  towards  an  alien  sea; 

The  Roman  and  the  Goth  more  meet 
To  walk  her  ancient  streets  than  we. 

No  less  than  Rome's  imperial  powers 

Did  thy  great  aqueduct  erect, 
And  Moorish  thy  Alcazar  towers, 

Sego%da  the  Circumspect! 

But  Gothic  all,  and  grim  and  plain, 

The  wall  that  girdles  Avila! 
For  centuries  the  Hope  of  Spain 

Has  slumbered  in  his  tomb  afar; 

Slumbered,  the  while  his  sister  pined 
In  prisons  lone,  a  sovereign  still! 

The  while  his  nephew  came  to  bind 
Proud  freemen  to  a  foreign  will! 

His  native  land,  in  that  long  sleep. 
Drifted  to  sordid  wreck  amain. 

Well  o'er  his  tomb  might  parents  weep, 
And  mourn  for  all  they  gave  to  Spain ! 

O'er  old  Castile  I  journey  late; 

The  stars  look  down  through  frosty  air; 
From  Burgos,  past  her  frowning  gate. 

The  highways  lengthen,  bleak  and  bare; 
127 


One  to  Las  Huelgas,  where  the  nuns 
Their  vigils  keep,  extends  its  line; 

And  one  past  Miraflores  runs, 

On  to  San  Pedro's  hallowed  shrine. 

Who  treads  that  silent  road  at  night 
Halts  by  the  thicket's  densest  shade 

To  see,  in  armor  gleaming  bright, 
A  horseman  pass,  in  steel  arrayed. 

A  sword  upright  he  firmly  holds; 

Forward  and  fixed  his  gaze;  no  sound. 
Save  from  his  banner's  shifting  folds. 

Or  hoof-stroke  on  the  flinty  ground. 

San  Pedro,  open  wide  your  gate ! 

The  master  comes,  at  home  to  dwell; 
Far  from  Valencia's  groves,  in  state. 

Proud  Bavieca  bears  him  well. 

Pelayo  and  the  Cid !  shall  we. 

Of  freemen  born,  our  praise  withhold 

From  men  who  stood  for  liberty. 

And  saved  their  land,  in  days  of  old? 

The  past,  the  present  —  each  to  each 
Linked  by  a  never-ending  chain; 

Who  still  would  faith  and  valor  teach, 
And  high  resolve,  must  learn  of  Spain ! 
128 


THOUGHTS  IN  A  LIBRARY 

These  laden  shelves,  with  their  historic  lore, 

Transport  you  to  the  empires  of  the  dead. 
Spread  the  wide  page,  and  you  shall  hear  no  more 

The  echoing  street  without,  the  hurried  tread 
And  throbbing  life  of  this  our  modern  land : 

The  rolling  centuries  are  backward  whirled; 
Beneath  the  gateway  of  the  past  you  stand, 

And  glide  into  the  morning  of  the  world. 

For  you  the  cities  of  the  East  again 

Their  busy  throngs  recall; 
You  see  their  reapers  bending  o'er  the  plain. 

Their  masons  on  the  wall. 
And  cruel  armies  issue  from  the  gate 

To  smite  some  trembling  land; 
Or,  home-returned,  with  victory  elate, 

They  lead  a  dusty  band 
Of  lowing  oxen,  weary  prisoners  bound. 

No  more  to  wander  free; 
Sad-faced,  while  jeering  thousands  press  around, 

Shouting  anew  to  see, 
'Mid  standards  thronging  high,  and  banners  torn, 
The  gleaming  spoil  of  palaces  upborne. 
129 


Whirled  onward  in  the  crowd's  exultant  tide, 

Rushing  with  eager  pride, 

You  mount  with  them  the  lofty  palace-floor; 

To  pause,  awe-struck,  beside  the  presence-door. 

Where  tower,  in  stony  calm,  with  lifted  wings. 

The  mighty  shapes  of  dread  Assyrian  kings: 

Then  entering,  undismayed. 

While  war's  strange  trophies  at  his  feet  are  laid, 

And  shields  are  clashed,  and  piercing  trumpets  blown, 

You  prostrate  fall  before  great  Sargon's  throne. 

Or,  in  the  river-plain,  amid  the  bloom 

Of  Babylon's  low  gardens,  you  shall  stray; 
While  evening's  gathering  stillness  lulls  each  sound, 

Save  that  of  dashing  waters  far  away 

And  mournful  winds  that  through  the  willows  play. 
When  festal  lights  no  longer  break  the  gloom, 

There,  in  the  hush  profound, 

From  dungeons  underground. 
As  near  the  palace-walls  your  footsteps  roam, 

You  start,  surprised  to  hear, 

Unseen,  and  yet  so  near, 
The  sobbing  captives,  where,  in  fetters  bound, 
Jerusalem's  sad  princes  dream  of  home. 

Would  you  escape  to  happier  scenes  than  this? 
You  then  shall  tread  where  proud  Persepolis 

Rears  in  the  vale  her  lofty  pillared  halls; 

Walk  through  her  spacious  courts,  when  lightly  falls 
130 


And  lifts  the  silken  curtain  in  the  breeze, 
Revealing  blooming  vistas,  where  the  trees 

Tremble  at  dusk  with  song  of  nightingales; 

Ere  from  the  horizon  sails 
The  full-orbed  moon,  to  brighten  all  the  sky. 
Riding  supreme  on  high. 

There,  at  the  noontide,  slumberous  with  the  heat. 
The  charmed  beholder  sees 

In  clustered  ranks  the  roses  red  and  sweet, 
And  diamond-dust  from  swaying  fountains  blowm 
O'er  glowing  turf  and  rim  of  sculptured  stone. 


And  now  a  sailor,  speeding  home  again 
To  x\thens  o'er  the  main. 
You  swiftly  pass  the  shining  Cyclades, 
Set  in  their  foamy  seas; 

And  standing  at  the  prow, 
When  leaps  the  bounding  skiff  to  every  wave. 

You  face  the  flying  spray,  and  shade  your  brow, 
Eager  one  glimpse  to  save 
Which  sends  assurance  to  your  straining  sight 
That  still  the  snowy  temples  crown  the  height: 
And  shout  for  joy,  when  o'er  the  billow's  crest. 

First  glimmers  from  afar, 
—  Ere  rocky  coast-line  darkens  on  the  west,  — 

The  twinkling  splendor,  like  a  drowning  star. 
Which  shows  where  mighty  Pallas  lifts  on  high 
Her  flashing  spear  against  the  azure  sky. 
131 


O'er  Gibbon's  stately  page  you  linger  then; 

And  pass  Rome's  prouder  day, 
To  mark,  recorded  by  his  faithful  pen, 

The  waning  strength  of  her  imperial  sway. 
No  victor's  hour  her  glory  shall  restore; 
The  haughty  legions  can  return  no  more. 
Along  her  highways;  but  a  savage  horde. 
Bearing  to  southern  lands  the  conqueror's  sword, 

In  vengeance  issue  forth 

From  forests  of  the  north. 
And  sweep  where  Caesar's  armies  trod  of  yore. 
Onward  they  pour  defiant,  trampling  down 
The  waving  field,  the  terror-stricken  town. 
Till  art  and  culture  from  their  shrines  are  hurled, 
And  havoc  wastes  the  Mistress  of  the  World. 

Long  centuries  pass:  and  arts,  revived  once  more. 
Teach  the  dark  world  what  they  had  taught  before, 
Kindling  anew  on  Learning's  blackened  shrine, 
From  ancient  fires,  the  saving  spark  divine. 
Then  states  and  kingdoms,  springing  side  by  side, 
Fan  the  bright  flame;  —  a  brotherhood  allied. 
By  sweet  civility  and  Christian  laws, 
To  foster  Learning  as  a  sacred  cause. 

Such  tales  these  volumes  tell,  — 
How  nations  rose  and  fell, 

What  virtues  strengthen,  and  what  crimes  destroy; 
And,  by  such  lessons  taught,  the  thoughtful  boy 
132 


Will  come  to  see  how  tyranny  and  wrong 
Can  rear  no  firm  dominion,  mild  and  strong. 
Then  shall  he  cherish  in  a  patriot's  breast 
Love  for  this  land,  the  youngest  and  the  best, 
Which  builds  her  power  on  blessings  that  endure, 
On  freedom,  won  alike  for  rich  and  poor; 
Seeks  peace  and  plenty;  turns  from  wasting  war. 
Yet  grasps  the  sword  to  save  a  righteous  law. 

Perchance  from  elder  times  you  haste  away 
To  see  what  pictures  greet  the  eye  to-day. 

Forth  with  the  traveller  you  lightly  pace 
Through  distant  realms,  on  Fancy's  flying  feet, 
Scaling  all  heights,  a  rover  free  and  bold; 

The  while  you  keep  your  place. 
Beside  the  hearthstone,  housed  from  wind  and  cold. 

Your  eye,  intent  upon  the  printed  sheet. 
Shall  foreign  lands  and  hidden  deeps  explore; 

You  gaze  where  billows  beat. 
Blue  as  of  old,  round  Psestum's  templed  shore; 
And  note,  twixt  crumbling  pillars  reared  on  high. 
The  wind-rocked  flower,  awave  against  the  sky. 
You  climb  steep  pathways,  dark  with  mountain-gloom; 
Or  tread  the  moorland,  sweet  with  tangled  bloom; 
Or  move  with  exiled  bands,  that  sadly  roam 
Toward  frozen  steppes,  despoiled  of  friends  and  home: 
Or  breast  with  wheeling  birds  the  welcome  breeze 

That  sweeps  the  Afric  coast, 
133 


Bringing  cool  draughts  from  wide  Atlantic  seas. 

To  shake  a  rustling  host 
Of  drooping  boughs,  and  tufted,  verdurous  plumes; 

Where  in  a  garden  lone, 

Terraced  adown  the  slope, 
Geranium  thickets  toss  their  scarlet  blooms, 

And  Moorish  casements  ope 
Fronting  the  wave,  with  every  curtain  blown; 
And  wind  and  morning  make  the  spot  their  own. 

Or,  pleasure-led  upon  a  brimming  tide. 
Float  where  the  Danube  rolls  its  flood  beside 
The  empty  halls  of  Presburg's  ruined  pile; 
See  bright  Valencia's  orange  orchards  smile; 
And  watch  the  sunset-glow 
Fade  from  Granada's  mountain-wall  of  snow: 

Or  scan  the  shadowed  steep 
Of  glad  Sorrento,  if,  engulfed  below. 
Where  green  the  waters  glide 
O'er  toppled  wall  and  villa  sunken  deep. 
Haply  a  slanting  beam  may  chance  to  show 
The  home  of  Tasso,  whelmed  within  the  tide. 

Such  journeys  swift,  such  devious  flight  he  tries 
Who  looks  at  nature  through  the  traveller's  eyes. 

Revolving  suns  to  other  lands  shall  bring 
Decay  and  darkness  to  succeed  the  spring: 
134 


But  neither  blight  nor  winter's  chill  may  come 
Where  art  and  letters  have  their  sheltered  home. 
Here  bloom  perennial  lingers  in  the  vales; 
The  airs  are  soft,  the  sunlight  never  pales. 
Whatever  blasts  may  sweep  the  western  hill, 
In  Chaucer's  verse  the  dew-drops  sparkle  still. 
The  turf  springs  fresh  and  cool,  the  daisies  glow. 
Though  planted  there  five  hundred  years  ago. 
From  Herrick's  garden  fade  the  daffodils, 
And,  fading,  bloom  for  aye;  with  fragrance  thrills 
Our  wondering  sense  when  we  behold  once  more 
The  lovely  rose  which  Saccharissa  wore : 
Still  steps  the  courtier  down  the  shaded  walk 
Plucking  its  fairest  blossom  from  the  stalk. 
To  add  a  beauty  to  the  dainty  line 
That  tells  his  lady  she  is  all  divine. 
Grave  Wordsworth  leads  us  forth  to  lonely  lakes 
Whose  placid  depths  the  mountain-shadow  takes; 
With  Keats  we  tread  where  summer  splendors  throng, 
And  Shelley's  skylark  floods  the  air  with  song. 

Though  science  flout  and  ignorance  deride. 

Imagination  shall  her  sway  retain; 
Here  Poesy  will  sit  by  Shakespeare's  side, 

Spirit  and  Master,  in  their  own  domain. 
And  that  great  soul  who  in  his  wisdom  knew. 
As  never  man  before,  how  sweetly  true. 
Tender,  and  loyal  womanhood  might  be,  — 
Most  truly  gentle  when  most  brave  and  free,  — 

135 


This  poet's  heart,  that  felt  the  wondrous  power 

Of  grace  and  beauty,  wit,  and  smiling  youth. 
Yet  turned  from  all,  in  manhood's  later  hour, 

To  greet  plain  constancy  and  simple  truth,  — 
The  bard  supreme,  to  woman's  heart  endeared, 

Preserves  within  these  walls  his  sacred  shrine. 
By  gratitude  and  fond  allegiance  reared, 

A  tribute  rendered  to  his  gifts  divine. 


And  o'er  the  threshold,  seeking  here  to  know 

The  hidden  import  of  his  every  phrase, 
All  day,  with  reverent  footsteps,  come  and  go 

The  maids  and  matrons,  uttering  still  his  praise; 
Finding  no  word  that  courteous  lips  may  speak. 
No  gallant  deed  but  seemeth  cold  and  weak, 
Beside  the  glowing  portraits  that  he  drew 
Of  those  pure  souls  his  loving  fancy  knew. 


And  when  the  night  has  closed  these  swinging  doors. 

And  home  and  revel  call  the  throng  away. 
With  silent  step,  across  the  vacant  floors, 

A  troop  of  shadowy  figures  seem  to  stray; 
Their  floating  garments  brighten  in  the  gloom. 

When  sails  the  rising  moon  o'er  elm  and  birch, 
Sending  its  beams  within  the  darkened  room. 

Betwixt  the  towers  of  a  Norman  church,  — 
Built  like  Matilda's  Abbey,  far  away. 
136 


What  wonder  that  a  loving  fancy  sees 
In  such  an  hour,  such  sacred  haunts  as  these, 
The  gentle  sisterhood  of  Shakespeare's  line, 
Stepped  from  their  nooks  to  bow  before  his  shrine! 

Faithful  Cordelia,  —  honor  dwells  with  her; 
Portia  the  wise,  and  Rosalind's  sweet  grace, 
Hiding  love's  rankling  wound  with  laughing  face; 

Gay,  sparkling  Beatrice,  and  Perdita, 
And  winsome  Imogen,  and  all  the  race 

Of  noble  wives,  and  most  unhappy  queens,  — 
Poor  Constance,  wild  with  wrongs;  and  Katherine, 

Whose  sturdy  pride  on  simple  justice  leans; 
And  she  who,  scoffing,  dared  her  Love  to  win 

Through  crime  a  kingly  crown;  and  then  apart. 
Sparing  his  troubled  sight  what  conscience  sent 
To  haunt  her  pillow,  paced,  with  shuddering  breath, 

Wringing  her  snow-white  hands. 

And  Anjou's  Margaret,  of  lion-heart, 
Defying  fate,  till,  every  arrow  spent 

And  high  hope  shattered,  in  her  father's  lands 
She  sat,  a  listless  exile,  waiting  death. 

The  world  has  wept  with  them  since  Prospero 
Summoned  their  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep 

To  tell  what  griefs  the  human  heart  can  know. 
What  bitter  woes  in  royal  tombs  may  sleep. 


137 


THE   PURPOSE   OF  LIFE 

Courage,  brave  soul!  the  ledgy  pathway  yonder 
O'er  windy  slopes,  will  lead  to  meadows  sweet; 

Turn  not  aside,  nor  let  thy  glances  wander 
To  find  a  smoother  turf  age  for  thy  feet ! 

True  to  thine  aim,  still  journey  on  undaunted, 
Led  by  the  stars  that  beckon  overhead! 

With  mind  intent,  thy  footsteps  firmly  planted 
Shall  crush  to  even  line  the  stones  they  tread. 

The  birds  that  circle  o'er  the  sedgy  hollows, 

The  coming  tides  that  backward  sweep  and  roll, 

Each  has  its  purpose,  and  in  wisdom  follows 
The  devious  ways  that  bring  it  to  its  goal. 

Theirs  to  renew  the  quest  with  every  morning. 
But  thine  to  mount  serener  heights  than  they; 

To  seek  the  truth,  all  baser  pleasures  scorning. 
Holding  thy  course  where  Honor  points  the  way. 

Nor  rest  thee  there!  the  gain  is  won  for  others; 

Thy  firmer  poise  must  steady  those  who  fall; 
To  higher  levels  lift  thy  weaker  brothers! 

God  gave  thy  powers  because  He  needs  them  all. 
138 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS 


THE  CITY  OF  PORTLAND,   MAINE 

Ye  bid  me  wake,  with  touch  unskilled  and  weak, 

The  mighty  harp  that  elder  bards  have  strung; 
Ye  bid  my  faltering  voice  essay  to  speak 

A  city's  joy,  where  nobler  strains  have  rung. 
Nor  festal  hymn,  nor  gladsome  lay  were  mine 

Should  once  her  poets  to  my  vision  rise. 
Like  those  rapt  singers  that  the  Florentine 

Beheld  with  reverent  eyes; 
And  mute  were  I,  did  venturous  thought  recall 
That  laurelled  name  on  London's  minster-wall. 

Yet  leaps  my  heart  to  celebrate  the  fame 

Of  that  dear  city  which  we  proudly  boast 
Oldest  and  largest  that  our  State  can  claim 

In  all  her  leagues  of  bay-indented  coast. 
From  east  to  west,  throughout  her  broad  domains. 

Swept  by  their  lordly  rivers  flowing  free, 
In  lake-strewn  forests  and  pine-mantled  plains 

No  spot  so  fair  to  see: 
Within  her  far-famed  bay  she  sits  serene. 
Of  all  Maine's  cities  the  acknowledged  queen. 

Written  by  invitation  of  the  City  Government  of  Portland;  and 
read  there,  on  July  6,  1886,  at  the  Centennial  Celebration  of  the 
Incorporation  of  the  town  as  Portland. 

141 


Like  posted  sentinels  in  outer  courts, 

Her  guards  and  watchmen  stand  on  many  a  steep, 
That  she  may  dwell  secure;  three  frowning  forts 

Train  their  long  guns  in  menace  o'er  the  deep. 
With  call  imperious  challenging  her  foes; 

Scanning  that  ocean-path  by  night,  by  day. 
The  old  red  tower  upon  her  hill-top  knows 

What  rovers  seek  her  bay; 
While  headland-lights,  like  torches  o'er  the  foam 
Of  darkling  waters,  guide  her  wanderers  home. 

Child  of  the  sea,  her  eager  looks  are  sent 

Towards  distant  Europe,  o'er  the  rolling  surge; 
Behind  her  spreads  a  teeming  continent, 

Herself  the  mistress  of  its  eastern  verge. 
Yet,  linking  her  with  far  Pacific  lands. 

Speed  the  great  engines,  rushing  to  and  fro 
O'er  the  straight  pathway  of  their  iron  bands; 

While  swift  her  white  ships  go, 
Like  gleaming  shuttles,  flying  o'er  the  main 
To  English  ports,  or  shores  of  France  and  Spain. 

Her  roving  sailors,  from  their  floating  decks. 
Descry  no  lands  so  lovely  as  her  own: 

How  bright  soe'er  the  realm,  it  little  recks 
To  them  what  splendors  gild  a  foreign  zone. 

And  though  her  sons  may  rear  their  homesteads  well 
On  southern  plain  and  many  a  western  farm, 

Where  love  and  fortune  weave  a  potent  spell, 

142 


She  holds  a  lasting  charm : 
Long  years  may  pass,  and  wide  her  children  roam, 
Yet  on  her  hearth-stones  burn  the  fires  of  home. 

In  summer's  sunshine  every  land  is  fair; 

But  fair  are  her  dear  coasts  in  sun  or  shade. 
Nor  winter's  sleet,  nor  August's  sultry  air 

Can  make  her  other  than  fond  nature  made: 
Better  her  ocean-gales,  her  spray-swept  shore. 

Her  fog-clouds  driven  o'er  the  shivering  land, 
Her  wild,  tempestuous  breakers,  and  their  roar, 

Than  alien  zephyrs  bland. 
No  storms  can  wreck  her  beauty;  clearer  glows 
Her  freshened  lustre,  like  a  rain-dashed  rose. 

For  nature  loves  her  well;  a  verdurous  wood 

Of  waving  boughs  seems  sheltering  the  town; 
And  Vaughan's  old  oaks,  a  mighty  brotherhood. 

On  Bramhall  stand;  though  pines  no  longer  crown 
Munjoy's  broad  slopes  descending  to  the  sea. 

In  swaying  elms  the  wild  bird  builds  her  nest; 
Across  these  ancient  gardens  still  the  bee 

Goes  murmuring  on  her  quest; 
And,  searching  for  lost  springs,  the  dragon-fly. 
On  wings  of  steely  gauze,  darts  whirring  by. 

For  man  alone  has  not  possessed  this  spot, 

This  strip  of  land  between  encircling  seas; 
The  tiny  races  whom  we  value  not 
143 


Have  danced  their  summer  revels  down  the  breeze, 
And  lightly  slept  within  their  native  earth; 

And  still  their  kindred  in  the  sunbeams  dwell. 
We  know  no  story  of  their  nation's  birth, 

Of  them  no  records  tell; 
But  Nature's  self  their  passing  lives  may  scan 
As  parts  essential  to  her  perfect  plan. 

Not  all  the  ships  that  in  its  haven  ride 

Can  take  one  native  charm  from  Casco  Bay ; 
Dark,  plumy  forests  swing  above  the  tide 

On  island  shores,  where  still,  in  careless  play. 
The  wild  duck  floats,  the  lonely  plover  calls; 

In  wave-washed  nooks,  by  human  eye  unseen. 
The  glistening  kelp  forever  lifts  and  falls; 

And  silvery  birches  lean, 
In  sunny  coves,  above  the  hard,  white  sand, 
Where  glides  no  skiff,  no  rover  seeks  the  land. 

When,  home-bound  from  the  deep,  a  tiny  shape 

On  dancing  waves,  the  fisher's  boat  is  seen 
Rounding  the  eastern  shores  of  that  broad  cape 

Named  at  her  death  for  England's  mighty  queen. 
How  welcome  to  his  gaze  each  curving  line 

From  Scarboro's  river-Points  to  Barberry  creek! 
At  Spurwink's  mouth  the  long,  white  beaches  shine: 

Beyond,  his  glances  seek 
Richmond's  lone  island,  on  whose  farthest  edge 
Breaks  the  wild  surf  o'er  Watts'  fatal  ledge. 

144 


Its  quiet  farmliouse  has  no  tale  to  tell 

Of  vanished  fleets  and  storehouses  and  pier; 
His  fancy  hears  no  pealing  chapel-bell, 

Nor  sees  young  Parson  Jordan  sauntering  near, 
Joining  the  captains  from  their  busy  ships, 

And  mistress  Sarah  in  her  London  gown, 
And  passing  in,  to  pray  with  fervent  lips 

For  good  King  Charles'  crown; 
Nor  does  his  thought  that  earlier  vision  hold 
Of  slaughtered  trader,  and  his  buried  gold. 

Near  the  Two  Lights,  where  dangerous  waters  glide, 

He  hears  Old  Anthony's  unceasing  knell; 
Through  Portland  Roads  he  hurries  with  the  tide 

Past  their  white  tower,  and  feels  the  rising  swell 
That  rocks  the  skiffs  in  Simonton's  broad  cove; 

From  Preble's  rampart  booms  the  sunset-gun 
O'er  Cushing's  Point,  where  erst  a  village  throve; 

And  now  the  sunken  sun 
Crimsons  the  wave,  where  gleaming  silks  outblown 
Once  scarfed  a  sea  with  priceless  wreckage  strewn. 

To  one  who  sits  upon  the  cliff  afar. 

Noting  the  waning  splendors  of  the  light, 

He  moves,  a  floating  speck,  behind  the  bar 
Of  Stanford's  ledge,  and  soon  is  lost  to  sight. 

Against  the  lingering  radiance  of  the  west. 
With  dome  and  slender  steeples  ranged  a-row. 

The  tree-embowered  city  on  her  crest 

145 


Burns  in  a  golden  glow; 

"UTiile  warmer  tints,  that  through  the  waters  play, 
Flush  the  far  sails  and  mantle  all  the  bay. 

Like  lovely  Venice  throned  above  the  tide, 

At  such  an  hour  the  glimmering  city  seems; 
Or  some  rich  caravan,  at  eve  descried 

Nigh  to  Damascus,  —  journeying  in  our  dreams. 
And  when  the  misty  branches  sway  and  glance, 

We  see  an  army's  ghttering  legions  stand, 
With  blazing  standards  lifted  to  advance; 

One  signal  of  command. 
And  the  great  host  shall  move  forever  by, 
Their  floating  banners  sweeping  down  the  sky! 

A  leafy  home  for  whispering  dryads  made 

Remains  their  haunt,  though  murmuring  streets 
are  near. 
Where  Deering's  Oaks,  within  their  solemn  shade, 

Preserve  a  hush,  a  spell,  that  kindles  fear; 
As  if  the  bandits  of  good  Robin  Hood, 

Or  playful  fairies,  trooped  the  paths  at  night. 
And  only  hid  within  the  hstening  wood 

When  wanderers  came  in  sight : 
Yet  rushing  trains  the  sturdy  branches  shake. 
And  children's  laughter  all  the  echoes  wake. 

Beyond  di^'iding  waters,  where  a  field 
Slopes  to  the  mansion  on  its  level  brow, 
146 


Sweet  orchard-glades  their  stern  traditions  yield 

Of  savage  conflict  centuries  ago. 
And  westward  still,  with  fonder  memories  blent, 

A  furzy  pasture  tells  of  strange  delights; 
For  there  the  circus  held  its  tournament, 

And  there,  on  gala  nights. 
The  fireworks'  magic  dazed  our  childish  eyes. 
Shooting  their  splendors  to  the  startled  skies. 

Our  city  guards,  upon  her  eastern  steep, 

The  graveyard  of  her  old,  historic  dead, 
Where  seven  generations  came  to  sleep 

Near  the  tall  pine  whose  shadows  long  have  fled: 
The  aged  parson,  shepherding  his  flock. 

The  brave  young  warriors,  slain  in  reckless  pride. 
Stout  captains,  fallen  in  the  battle's  shock. 

There  slumber,  side  by  side; 
And  sailors  bold,  that  cruise  the  deep  no  more, 
Past  the  known  headlands  of  this  winding  shore. 

From  old  Munjoy  what  glimpses,  toward  the  west. 

Of  mighty  summits,  gleaming  in  their  snows 
When    plains    are    bare!     of    Blackstrap's     needled 
crest ! 

From  Westbrook's  fields  beyond  how  lightly  blows 
The  thistle-globe  upon  the  scented  breeze. 

Threading  the  mazes  of  the  wind-swept  town 
To  float  and  ride  upon  the  summer  seas! 

And  calmly  looking  down, 
147 


In  faithful  \agil,  stands  the  broad,  red  tower. 
Waving  its  flags  to  hail  this  happy  hour. 

On  these  glad  festal  days  is  toil  forgot; 

Merchants  and  lawyers  throng  the  crowded  way; 
For  wind  and  tide  the  sailor  careth  not; 

His  little  sloop,  with  all  her  pennons  gay. 
Waits  in  the  stream,  that  he  may  walk  in  pride 

With  Portland's  sons;  no  farmer's  scythe  is  swung; 
No  sportive  children  seek  the  country-side; 

But  all,  the  old  and  young. 
Together  come,  their  city's  name  to  bless; 
Happier  to  share  each  other's  happiness. 

Within  her  gates  no  stranger's  voice  is  mute; 

They  who  have  shared  her  welcome  sing  her  fame; 
The  waiting  steamships  blow  their  shrill  salute; 

From  anchored  frigates  seamen  shout  her  name; 
And  where,  beside  the  waves,  the  fortress  lowers 

Thunder  the  booming  cannon,  keeping  time; 
Even  the  fog-bells,  in  their  open  towers 

On  breezy  headlands  chime; 
And  the  swift-coming  engines,  rushing  near. 
Snort  like  great  steeds,  rejoicing  to  be  here. 

The  tree-tops  swaying  o'er  the  crowded  street. 
The  island  forests,  the  resounding  main. 

Near  fields,  awave  with  grass  and  rustling  wheat,  — 
Midsummer's  gentle  voices,  swell  the  strain; 
148 


The  swallow  from  the  roof -tree  sends  his  note; 

Birds  in  the  garden-branches  pipe  and  sing; 
The  sea-gull,  screaming  as  he  rocks  afloat 

Or  soars  on  circling  wing,  — 
All  these  of  her  dominion  proudly  raise 
In  one  full  chorus  their  exultant  praise. 

Dreaming  she  sits,  this  mother  of  us  all, 

This  city  that  has  blessed  us  from  our  birth; 
About  her  brows  a  fresh,  green  coronal, 

Twined  by  her  children  in  their  hour  of  mirth; 
Seaward  she  looks,  yet  with  a  tender  glance; 

Her  mantle  backward  blown  along  the  hill, 
Her  head  down-dropped,  as  in  a  thoughtful  trance. 

Her  fair  hands  clasped  and  still; 
Scarce  noting  how  the  fitful  breezes  sweet 
And  the  glad  billows  run  to  kiss  her  feet. 

Across  the  bay  she  sees  the  ships  come  in. 

Bringing  her  exiles  to  their  homes  once  more; 
Beneath  her  cliff  resounds  the  passing  din 

Of  trains  that  speed  their  thousands  to  her 
shore; 
Each  wanderer  to  her  loving  heart  is  dear; 

No  child  that  she  hath  known  hath  she  forgot : 
Their  joyous  greetings  on  her  hundredth  year 

She  hears,  but  answers  not; 
For  memory,  running  back  beyond  our  ken, 
Recalls  the  storied  past  to  live  again. 
149 


She  seems  the  brooding  spirit  of  the  place, 

Before  whose  gaze,  in  solemn  vision,  sweep 
Long  centuries,  since  first  a  dusky  race 

Came  here  to  dwell  on  Machigonne's  lone  steep : 
Again  she  listens  to  their  savage  speech, 

Hears  the  swift  arrow  whistling  through  the  glade, 
The  Ught  canoe  dra'^n  on  the  sandy  beach; 

And,  'mid  the  forests'  shade, 
Sees  the  great  sagamores,  with  darkling  frowns. 
In  haughty  council  rear  their  feathered  crowns. 

Hither,  attended  by  her  royal  train, 

Comes  Cogawesco's  noble-hearted  queen. 
With  welcome  guiding  through  her  own  domain 

A  stranger  ship  to  yonder  island  green. 
There  the  first  colonists,  of  Saxon  race. 

Fell  the  dense  wood  and  build  a  goodly  house; 
Anon  a  statelier  vessel  seeks  the  place; 

While,  under  drooping  boughs, 
An  Oxford  scholar  builds  his  Latin  lay,  — 
The  earUest  bard  to  sing  of  Casco  Bay. 

The  ships  depart;  their  men  are  seen  no  more: 
Ten  years,  and  English  trading-ships  alone 

Come  fishing  to  her  bay,  from  Richmond's  shore; 
Then  the  first  settler,  proud  to  call  his  own 

The  jutting  mainland,  with  its  circhng  strand. 
Builds  a  log  cabin  by  her  running  brook. 

For  thirty  years  he  portions  out  the  land 

150 


To  West-of-England  folk, 
Brave  Devon  squires,  whose  fathers,  from  the  main. 
With  Drake  and  Raleigh,  swept  the  fleets  of  Spain. 

In  final  rest,  beneath  a  lofty  pine 

Spared  by  his  axe,  the  pioneer  has  lain 
But  ten  brief  years,  when  forth,  a  flying  line. 

From  raided  farms,  her  settlers  seek  the  main. 
Returning,  drawn,  at  last,  by  love  and  hope. 

They  build  anew,  with  fort  and  palisade; 
Then  a  day's  battle  on  an  orchard-slope, 

A  long-besieged  stockade, 
With  desperate,  vain  defence,  and  wild  uproar, 
And  Indian  warriors  hold  the  land  once  more. 

Through  flame  and  death  her  far-led  captives  go, 

While  empty  streets  and  bleaching  bones  remain : 
Long  decades  pass;  the  wasted  homesteads  know 

Their  sons  once  more,  their  hamlet  thrives  again. 
Soon  a  young  parson  comes  the  flock  to  lead; 

And  savage  foes  are  bound  by  solemn  peace; 
Westward,  to  sister -towns,  the  postmen  speed; 

While,  over  cool,  bright  seas. 
Their  steady  course  the  mighty  mast-ships  keep, 
And  venturous  traders  skim  a  foreign  deep. 

But  if,  above  the  waves'  tumultuous  roar 

In  Biscay's  bay,  where  the  long  breaker  swells. 
Her  hardy  sailors  hear,  when  off  Bilboa, 

151 


The  faint,  far  ringing  of  Spain's  convent-bells, 
And  note,  across  dark  olives  on  the  height, 

Where  the  lone  belfry  cuts  the  glo-v^nng  skies. 
The  monk,  slow  passing  in  his  robe  of  white. 

What  longings  then  arise 
To  see  that  log-built  meeting-house  once  more. 
Amid  the  pine-trees  of  a  northern  shore! 

Sixty  glad  years,  and  Falmouth  mourns  again; 

Her  old  protector  has  become  her  foe; 
All  day  she  shrinks  before  the  scorching  rain 

Of  shot  and  shell;   all  night  the  heavens  glow 
With  blazing  ships  and  mansions  wrapped  in  fire. 

From  threatening  fleets,  and  battle's  dread  alarms. 
To  safer  fields  her  stricken  sons  retire : 

At  length,  from  Gorham  farms 
And  distant  camps,  her  wanderers  homeward  flee, 
Hailing  the  Peace  that  makes  a  nation  free. 

Soon  free,  herself,  a  prouder  name  to  know 

Than  Falmouth  Neck,  with  years  of  strength  begun, 
Fair  Portland  greets,  a  century  ago. 

Christening  and  independence-day  in  one. 
An  ocean-mart,  she  comes  to  rule  the  wave. 

To  stand  its  foremost  city,  "v^nse  and  great, 
When  Gorges'  province,  with  the  name  he  gave, 

Steps  forth,  a  sovereign  State. 
And  still  her  Devon  blood  would  tempt  the  breeze 
And  drive  her  foemen  from  insulting  seas. 

152 


What  s^-ift  advance  a  hundred  years  have  wrought, 

Despite  embargo,  war,  and  raging  flame! 
Great  industries  her  changing  needs  have  brought 

To  feed  her  commerce;   where  the  postman  came, 
Fly  train  and  steamboat  to  her  bridge-bound  shore : 

For  two  good  parsons  that  in  sorrow  spake, 
Thirty  she  hears;   for  one  gazette,  a  score; 

She  quafiPs  Sebago  lake. 
For  Marjory's  spring;  and  for  the  candle's  ray. 
Electric  lights  pour  radiance  clear  as  day. 

Although  her  last  dread  foe,  the  ruthless  flame. 

Has  razed  her  ancient  homes,  an  honored  few 
Preserve  some  treasures  that  the  past  would  claim; 

There  rest  the  mugs  the  Peter  Waldo  knew. 
From  which  old  seadogs  have  been  wont  to  drain, 

In  deep  carouse,  their  healths  of  Admiral  rum; 
Pale  Canton  silks,  that  tell  in  rent  and  stain 

How  the  Grank  Turk  came  home; 
There  Mowatt's  fiery  shot,  embedded  deep. 
Have  had  a  centurj'  for  cooling  sleep. 

Such  the  long  memories  that  her  heart  has  kept;  — 
Loss  and  disaster,  but  triumphant  gain; 

Four  times  the  tomahawk  or  the  flame  has  swept 
Her  narrow  slopes :  yet  unto  her  remain 

A  people  crowding  to  the  billowj'-  strand 

And  o'er  the  fields:  a  brave  and  courtly  race; 

With  merchant-princes  fitted  to  command 

153 


Her  fates  in  war  and  peace. 
Nor  wealth  alone,  nor  strength;  a  mightier  power 
She  gives  her  children,  —  learning's  priceless  dower. 

Favored  are  we  to  greet  thy  festal  year, 

O  blessed  town,  which  many  ne'er  behold, 
And  none  but  once;  for  all  who  gather  here 

Must  find  their  vigor  spent,  their  brief  lives  told. 
Ere  thou,  still  wearing  thine  immortal  grace, 

And  throned,  as  now,  beneath  resplendent  skies, 
Shalt  see  another  century  end  its  race, 

Another  dawn  arise 
When  mighty  throngs  shall  tread  thine  ancient  ways. 
And  grateful  thousands  chant  their  votive  lays. 

And  thou  wilt  sit  again  among  thy  dead, 

Happy  as  now,  and  grown  to  prouder  state; 
Roses  as  fresh  shall  wreathe  thy  stately  head. 

And  worthier  verse  thy  glories  celebrate. 
But  fairer  than  the  splendors  round  thee  then. 

More  clear  than  other  scenes  by  memory  brought. 
This  one  glad  summer-tide  shall  live  again 

And  brighten  in  thy  thought; 
This  summer-tide,  when  first  before  thy  feet 
Thy  singing  children  flung  their  garlands  sweet. 

While  yet  in  breeze  and  sunshine  we  rejoice, 

And  echoes  of  our  fleeting  song  remain. 
Or  ere  the  swelling  anthem  drowns  our  voice, 

154 


Give  ear,  great  mother,  to  our  parting  strain ! 
Hail,  dear  protectress  of  our  lives  and  toil ! 

A  people's  homage  is  the  praise  we  bear; 
Still  bless  our  homes  upon  thy  sacred  soil! 

And  Heaven,  that  made  thee  fair, 
And  gave  thee  strength,  and  kept  thee  through 

all  fears, 
Shall  guard  thee  still  another  hundred  years! 


155 


CONCORD,  NEW  HAIVIPSHIRE 

As  some  late  pilgrim,  at  a  shrine 

He  fain  would  honor,  stays  his  feet. 
Beholding  how  in  splendor  shine  ' 

Rare  gems  amid  the  incense  sweet; 

Then  comes  at  last  with  timid  love 

To  hang  his  simple  garland  there. 
And  bends,  those  richer  gifts  above. 

To  lift  his  heart's  unuttered  prayer;  — 

So  here  to-night,  when  others  praise 

With  fitting  words  our  citj'"s  fame, 
I  bring  a  poet's  modest  bays 

To  wreathe  aromid  her  honored  name. 

Though  eloquence  her  deeds  adorn. 
And  music  charm  with  heavenly  art. 

This  humbler  gift  she  will  not  scorn,  — 
The  tribute  of  a  lo^•ing  heart! 

Yox  river,  coursing  to  the  main, 
Threads  mountain-vale  and  \'illage-plain. 
And  seaward  rolls  its  lordly  tide 
By  chestnut  groves  and  meadows  wide, 
^^^lile  oft,  within  its  shadowed  stream, 
The  lights  of  stately  cities  gleam; 
But  ne'er  a  city  proud  and  fair, 

Written   by    invitation    of   the    Board   of  Trade    of    Concord, 
and  read  at  the  dedication  of  its  new  building,  October  20,  1873. 

156 


Nor  pleasant  village  nestled  there, 
To  you  and  me  is  half  so  dear 
As  this  old  town  embowered  here. 

To  you  and  me,  though  I  can  claim 

No  birthright  in  her  blessed  name; 

Your  childhood  knew  these  grassy  plains, 

These  river-banks  and  winding  lanes, 

And  still  you  tread  the  fertile  soil 

Your  fathers  won  by  manly  toil. 

But  late  I  came;  and  brought  with  me 

Old  memories  of  a  northern  sea. 

Of  streets  whose  lengthened  vistas  gave 

Blue  glimpses  of  the  tossing  wave; 

Nor  can  my  roving  thoughts  forget 

Those  lost  delights;  I  see  them  yet,  — 

The  rocking  masts,  the  shifting  tides. 

Great  ships  that  clove  with  wave-washed  sides 

The  harbor's  rim  —  their  sails  unfurled,  — 

And  dipped  below  my  happy  world. 

Oh!  city  smiling  by  the  sea. 
Home  of  my  kindred,  blame  not  me 
If  here  my  later  years  have  found 
A  charm  that  makes  this  alien  ground. 
These  river-meadows  broad  and  green. 
And  inland  fields,  a  fairer  scene 
Than  all  your  prouder  beauty  wore. 
Enthroned  upon  that  sunlit  shore! 
157 


For  loving  well  your  headlands  gray, 
Where  sea-gulls  breast  the  flying  spray. 
And  longing  still  for  one  salt  breeze 
Blown  landward  from  your  stormy  seas, 
I  keep  a  dearer  niche  apart 
For  this  new  home,  within  my  heart. 

Come  with  me,  friend,  if  thou  would'st  see 
How  fair  in  dreams  it  looks  to  me. 
When,  weary  of  the  restless  beat 
Of  some  great  city's  passing  feet, 
I  shut  my  eyes,  give  Fancy  wings. 
And  take  whate'er  the  fairy  brings! 

No  more  the  crowds  that  come  and  go 
Can  tire  me  with  their  empty  show; 
For  in  their  stir  she  bids  me  hear 
The  sway  of  pine-boughs  rustling  near. 
The  lapsing  floods  that  swirl  and  glide 
Where  bridges  span  a  parted  tide. 
And  Concord  greets  my  inward  sight. 
Her  steeples  shining  in  the  light. 

How  clear  above  her  brimming  stream 
The  swallows  chatter  in  my  dream ! 
How  fair  the  golden  lilies  stand 
That  bend  and  bow  on  either  hand. 
As  trailing  through  her  meadow-grass, 
At  summer-tide  I  seem  to  pass, 
158 


Wliile  winged  trains  of  butterflies 
Flit  round  me  under  sunny  skies! 

Yes,  come  with  me !  this  crowded  walk 
Where  traders  lounge  and  gossips  talk 
Is  not  the  town  I  love  so  well; 
Forsake  her  streets,  and  mount  the  swell 
Of  yonder  bluff  that  crowns  the  stream,  — 
There  see  the  city  of  my  dream ! 

Haste  thither  ere  the  splendor  dies 
From  late  October's  glowing  skies ! 

You  know  the  road,  —  how  soon  it  yields 
Wide  glimpses  of  familiar  fields 
And  azure  heavens,  as  down  we  go, 
O'er  nets  of  rail-tracks  bridged  below. 
And  on  to  where  the  river-side 
Flings  its  long  bridge  across  the  tide. 

If  odors  greet  us,  not  the  best 
That  waft  from  Araby  the  Blest, 
And  country  wagons,  homeward  bound. 
Drive  us  to  tread  the  dewy  ground 
WTiere  poison-i\T  darkly  shines. 
We  hurry  on,  till  stately  lines 
Of  willows  toss  their  plumy  green 
O'er  marshy  thickets  spread  between, 
159 


Where  jewel-weeds  so  lightly  hold 
Their  dainty  horns  of  red  and  gold. 

There  leave  the  turnpike,  cool  and  still, 
Through  dim  glens  winding  up  the  hill!     v 
Turn  to  the  left!  the  bank  is  steep, 
But  overhanging  branches  weep 
Their  dews  above  the  beaten  sand; 
And  soon  upon  the  bluff  you  stand, 
Where  runs  a  pathway  straight  and  high, 
Hung  midway  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky. 
Though  close  it  threads  the  wind-swept  crown. 
So  steep  the  front  goes  shehdng  down 
That  he  who  walks  there  will  not  know 
What  soaring  pine-trees  climb  below. 
What  poplars  twinkle,  all  unseen, 
Beneath  the  cliff,  —  a  belt  of  green, 
Whose  interlacing  branches  trace 
Another  pathway  at  its  base. 

If,  close  behind,  a  sun-steeped  wood 
Breathes  out,  from  its  near  solitude, 
Warm,  spicy  perfumes,  and  the  bees 
Sing  through  its  aisles  in  drowsy  ease, 
He  heeds  it  not;  for,  pausing  there, 
He  fronts  blue  levels  of  the  air. 
And  sees  no  nearer  land  before 
Than  that  deep  meadow's  grassy  floor, 
160 


Where  swallows  wheel,  with  twitter  sweet, 
Weaving  their  circles  at  his  feet. 

Why  paint  a  scene  whose  beauties  lie 
Revealed  before  your  dreaming  eye? 
There,  in  these  mellow  autumn  days, 
October  spreads  her  golden  haze. 
And  all  the  land  with  glory  fills, 
Kindling  her  torches  on  the  hills. 
Along  the  pathway  whence  we  came 
The  sumach's  drooping  leaflets  flame; 
In  verdant  intervales  below 
The  scarlet  maples  burn  and  glow; 
And  where  the  elm-trees  stand  in  line 
Unfading  sunlight  seems  to  shine. 

Such  splendors  fringe  thy  devious  track 
Across  our  vales,  proud  Merrimac ! 
With  ceaseless  currents  sweeping  down 
Past  beetling  cliflF  and  steepled  town, 
And  turning  to  the  heavenly  zone 
A  bluer  azure  than  its  own. 

Untamed  by  years,  forever  free, 
Man's  title-deeds  are  naught  to  thee! 
No  boundaries  can  stay  thy  tide. 
Scooping  the  mountain's  shehdng  side. 
And  spurning  with  a  new  disdain 
Thine  ancient  margin  on  the  plain! 
161 


Each  spring-time,  fed  by  mountain-snows, 
Thy  flood's  resistless  torrent  flows, 
Bearing  away  the  work  of  years, 
Wrenching  great  bridges  from  their  piers. 
And  hurling,  with  defiant  hand. 
Their  splintered  fragments  to  the  land! 
Each  year  beneath  thy  treacherous  tides 
Some  brave  young  life  forever  glides! 
And  still  above  the  smiling  grave 
Remorseless  plays  thy  dimpled  wave! 

So  smiles  it  now,  with  molten  dyes 
Reflected  from  the  sunset-skies. 

What  haunts  beloved  stretch  beyond ! 
The  sedgy  shores  of  Horseshoe  Pond, 
And  Wattanummun's  sluggish  brook,  — 
Where  once  the  savage  Penacook 
Took  deadly  aim  at  beast  and  bird. 
And  all  the  silent  valley  heard 
His  whizzing  arrow,  where  to-day 
Whistles  the  engine  on  its  way. 

How  proudly  in  this  woodland  shade 
The  wise  chief  dwelt  whom  he  obeyed. 
What  mirth  re-echoed  o'er  the  tide. 
When  here  a  sachem  wed  his  bride, 
No  later  muse  shall  dare  reh  arse,  — 
It  lives  in  Whittier's  classic  verse. 
162 


Not  always  thus  with  rousing  cheer 
Of  feast  and  bridal  passed  the  year! 
Foes  sought  the  vale  of  Penacook, 
And  there,  within  the  sheltered  nook 
Of  Sugar-Ball,  thick  arrows  sped, 
And  hostile  Mohawks  scalped  their  dead. 

No  terms  of  half-forgotten  lore 
Were  these  soft  Indian  names  of  yore 
To  men  who  built  our  meadow-town, 
With  dusky  faces  looking  down 
From  wooded  heights;  to  matrons  pale 
Who  spied  the  savage  in  the  vale, 
And  trembled  lest  the  moon  should  rise 
On  homesteads  blazing  to  the  skies. 

If  vain  their  fears,  that  shaft  will  tell 

WTiose  granite  shows  us  where  they  fell ! 

And  yonder  isle,  that  bears  the  name 

Of  her  who  to  its  margin  came 

A  pale-faced  captive,  ner\'ing  there 

Her  valiant  soul  to  do  and  dare 

The  utmost,  if  its  fearful  cost 

Might  give  once  more  her  loved  and  lost! 

There  by  the  stream  whose  waters  flow 
As  when  she  heard  them,  long  ago. 
Listening  in  terror  for  a  sound 
From  startled  warriors,  while  the  ground 
163 


Echoed  each  foot-fall,  and  her  breath 
Seemed  warning  them  of  coming  death,  — 
There  shall  her  sculptured  statue  rise. 
Bearing  its  witness  to  the  skies 

That  courage  knows  no  narrow  ban. 
But  brave  endeavors  to  be  free. 
Strong  arms,  and  stronger  \\all  should  be 

Honored  in  woman  as  in  man ! 

These  deeds  our  silent  plains  have  seen, 
WTiere  now,  upon  their  shaven  green, 
Fringing  the  river's  further  side, 
A  city  stands  in  queenly  pride. 
Beyond  her  roof -trees,  tower  high, 
'Twixt  flowing  stream  and  arching  sky. 
Long  hills,  whose  verdurous  summits  bound 
The  heavens  and  gird  the  landscape  round. 
Northward,  upon  its  upland  crest, 
East  Concord's  \allage  fronts  the  west; 
And  there,  beneath  the  setting  sun. 
The  wave-like  top  of  Cardigan, 
And  Ragged  Mountain's  broken  line 
In  shadowy  splendors  faintly  shine; 
Kearsarge,  with  outlines  grand  and  dim, 
Looks  proudly  o'er  the  feathered  rim 
Of  Rattlesnake,  whose  forests  show. 
Through  gleaming  scars,  the  wealth  below 
Of  granite  ledges  quarried  deep. 
Wherein  unbuilded  temples  sleep. 
164 


Far  southward  spring,  with  level  crown, 
The  hills  of  distant  Francestown, 
Bathed  in  the  evening's  misty  lights, 
As  fair  as  Beulah's  peaceful  heights. 

Unseen  the  mighty  peaks  that  rise 
To  heaven  along  those  northern  skies; 
Unseen  the  lake,  the  shining  pond, 
Flashing  in  nearer  lands  beyond. 
But,  linked  with  them,  the  railroad  leads 
Its  iron  bands  across  our  meads. 
And  Memory  with  their  grandeur  thrills, 
Here  in  the  gateway  of  the  hills. 

We  linger  late!  the  sunlight  fades; 

Lone  night-hawks  call  from  woodland  glades. 

And  crickets  chirp  their  harvest-song. 

As  homeward  now  we  pass  along 

'Twixt  dewy  fields,  while  stars  look  down 

In  silence  o'er  the  lighted  town, 

And  high  upon  their  lofty  tower 

Her  shining  dials  tell  the  hour. 


The  builders  of  our  city  planned 

For  days  to  come,  when  o'er  their  land 

They  traced  these  spacious  streets; 
And  planted  by  the  walks  they  made 
The  giant  elms  whose  welcome  shade 

Their  children's  children  greets. 
165 


Semblance  of  him  the  world  hath  known. 
That  Yankee  Count,  whose  deathless  fame 
Gives  lustre  to  our  elder  name. 
Should  we  not  honor  him  who  there. 
Where  monarchs  crowned  him,  chose  to  bear 
The  title  of  this  little  town, 
And  link  it  with  his  great  renown? 
When  foreign  lands  his  works  revere. 
Shall  Rumford  be  forgotten  here? 

But  who  would  gain  a  ripened  store 

Of  fruitage  richer  than  before 

Must  labor  in  the  present  hour. 

And  plant  the  seed  that  brings  the  flower. 

Guard  w^ell  your  schools  with  zealous  care. 

And  share  the  work  entrusted  there! 

Nor  leave  to  others'  words  to  preach 

What  your  examples  best  can  teach! 

Thus  may  your  children  learn  to  prize 

A  noble  life,  a  temper  wise, 

Serene  and  generous,  more  than  gains 

Won  for  themselves  with  endless  pains, 

Where  self-respect  and  peace  are  lost. 

And  honor  is  the  price  they  cost. 

And  thus  shall  our  beloved  town 
Add  to  its  wealth  of  old  renown 
A  name  for  strength  and  sterling  worth, 
Borne,  like  her  coaches,  round  the  earth ! 
168 


DEDICATION  OF  THE  PUBLIC  LIBRARY 

BUILDING  OF  CONCORD, 

NEW  HAMPSHIRE 

A  LITTLE,  brave  New  England  town, 

They  built  in  early  days, 
When  they  had  cut  the  forest  down. 

And  cleared  the  grassy  ways. 
In  seemly  order,  side  by  side. 
The  buildings  rose  in  modest  pride. 
With  drooping  garden-boughs  between, 
And  trellised  vines,  and  plots  of  green; 
Each  hearthstone  laid  for  household  cheer, 
And  sober  feasts  throughout  the  year. 

Outside  their  homes,  in  earnest  mood. 
They  labored  for  the  common  good; 

They  made  their  highways  straight  and  broad. 
And  trees  transplanted  from  the  wood. 

To  shade  the  springing  sod. 

The  building  which  contains  the  Public  Library  of  Concord, 
New  Hampshire,  was  presented  to  that  city  as  a  memorial  to  two 
eminent  citizens,  Hon.  Asa  Fowler  and  Mary  Knox  Fowler,  his 
wife.  This  poem,  written  by  request  of  the  donors,  Mr.  William 
P.  and  Miss  Clara  M.  Fowler,  of  Boston,  Massachusetts,  was  read 
as  part  of  the  dedicatory  exercises  held  within  the  new  building, 
on  October  18,  1888. 

169 


A  council-hall  for  stern  debate 
On  matters  that  concerned  the  state, 
And  many  schools  and  churches  stood. 
To  make  men  wise,  and  keep  them  good. 

And  so,  intent  on  grave  affairs, 

With  honest  toil, 
They  gave  themselves  to  daily  cares, 

And  turned  the  stubborn  soil. 
Wealth  was  not  there  to  flaunt  her  power. 
Nor  poverty,  in  dens  to  cower: 
But  all  like  helpful  brothers  dwelt, 
Together  worked,  together  knelt; 
With  httle  time  to  waste  in  mirth; 
Mindful  of  heaven,  but  more  of  earth. 

In  time  there  came,  to  claim  a  home, 
A  pilgrim-group,  of  foreign  mien, — 
Like  straggling  gypsy-bands  that  roam 
By  village-lanes  and  meadows  green; 
Born  under  other  skies  than  ours, — 
A  land  of  song,  and  sun,  and  flowers. 
In  gait  and  speech  and  flashing  eye, 
With  gracious  look,  and  bearing  high. 
They  seemed  to  speak  of  far-off  climes. 
Of  southern  lands,  and  elder  times. 

They  gave  a  greeting,  as  they  came. 
And  told  their  names  with  conscious  pride, 
170 


As  though  with  noble  blood  allied, 

And  not  unkno"WTi  to  fame. 
Learning,  in  mantle  frayed  and  brown, 
Upon  an  open  page  looked  down. 

Nor  raised  for  once  her  eyes : 
Then  grave  Philosophy,  intent, 
TMio  scarcely  saw  which  way  she  went, 

Off -looking  to  the  skies: 
And  Science,  young,  wdth  sturdy  pace, 

Advancing,  bold  and  free. 
Looked  neither  off  to  empty  space 

Nor  dropped  his  gaze  to  see 
The  storied  page  which  Learning  read, — 
So  rapt  she  did  not  hear  his  tread. 
He  spoke  not  "vsath  the  sauntering  band, 
But  kept  aloof,  the  while  he  scanned 
—  Upheld  within  his  steady  hand  — 
The  pebble  flecked  with  mosses  brown. 

The  leaflet  from  the  wayside  tree; 
And  bent  his  brows  -^dth  haughty  frown 
If  they,  his  elders,  crossed  his  path; 
Nor  strove  to  hide  his  scornful  wrath 

At  sight  of  Poesy. 

For  he,  the  tricksy,  venturous  child. 
With  eyes  in-looking,  deep  and  ^^'ild. 
Danced  here  and  there,  a  wayward  elf. 
Humming  his  carols  to  himself; 
But  turning  back  anon, 
171 


Ere  far  his  steps  had  gone, 
With  sudden  start,  and  hurried  stride, 
To  cling  his  comrades'  skirts  beside; 
Nestling  his  hand  within  their  own. 
As  loath  to  find  himself  alone. 

No  money  had  they  in  their  purse; 

Footsore  they  came. 
They  neither  hammered,  delved,  nor  spun. 
And  boasted  naught  that  they  had  done; 
Nor  seemed  to  fear  a  stranger's  curse; 

Nor  held  it  cause  for  shame 
To  beg  for  shelter,  food,  and  fire. 
Enough  to  stay  their  life's  desire. 

The  boon  was  asked  with  careless  grace. 
As  who  should  say,  "Another  place 
Awaits  us,  but  we  deign  to  stay. 
Since  here  we  halted  on  the  way. 
Vouchsafe  the  paltry  gifts  we  need, 
And  you  shall  find  us  friends  indeed! 
If  forth  we  go,  to  wander  free. 
You  are  the  poorer  then,  not  we." 

The  citizens,  for  very  shame, 

At  mention  of  each  sounding  name, 

Forbore  the  vagrant  band  to  chide: 
They  gave  them  liberty  to  take 
The  roof  another's  needs  forsake, 
172 


And  there  in  peace  to  bide; 
To  grasp  whatever  fruits  might  be 
Unplucked  by  honest  industry; 
To  seek  the  shade  when  days  were  warm, 
And  house  themselves  from  wind  and  storm. 

And  so  to  any  roof  they  went 
Which  plenty  spared  and  sufferance  lent: 
And  each  so  well  his  part  did  bear, 
Content  to  claim  his  meagre  share. 
That  soon  the  town  with  truth  confessed 
It  ne'er  had  held  a  worthier  guest. 

But  Poesy,  when  others  stood 
Snatching  betimes  their  scanty  food, 

Was  roaming  far  and  wide, 
Pulling  the  wild-rose  from  the  ledge 
Or  asters  from  the  wayside  hedge. 
And  lingering  in  the  wood 
To  weave  a  garland  for  his  head; 
By  every  passing  fancy  led 

To  pond  and  riverside; 
Watching  the  sunset's  purple  state. 
Till  home  was  reached,  alas,  too  late. 

Oft  went  he  supperless  to  bed. 

Blowing  his  finger-tips  for  cold,  — 
To  rise  at  night,  when  all  was  still, 
173 


And  play  upon  his  reedy  flute 
— Left  all  the  day  unblown  and  mute, — 
Such  rapturous  airs,  so  sweet,  so  bold. 
High-floating  over  vale  and  hill. 
That  all  who  heard  them  in  their  sleep 
Saw  \^sions  which  the  angels  keep 
For  weary  mortals,  who  would  fain 
Some  ghmpse  of  Paradise  obtain. 
Then  back  to  chilly  bed  he  crept. 
And  soon,  with  tired  eyehds,  slept. 

Nor  did  he  deem  his  lot  unblest, 
Since  tender  fancies  warmed  his  breast, 
And  music  wafted  to  the  wind 
His  woes,  and  left  content  behind. 
But  ere  he  slept,  the  pitj-ing  Muse 
Fed  her  dear  child  with  honeyed  dews. 
Gathered  where  sparkHng  waters  shine. 
With  sweet  ambrosia,  food  divine. 

They  held  such  converse,  deep  and  high. 
This  stranger-band,  as  years  went  by. 

That  friends  they  won  among  the  few; 
Who  saw  fresh  glories  in  the  sky. 

And  subtler  meanings  drew 
From  changing  aspects  of  the  field,— 
The  priceless  crops  their  furrows  yield; 
Ungarnered  till  at  length  they  find 
A  storehouse  in  the  thinker's  mind. 
174 


A  joy  serene  was  taught  to  age, 

Who  learned  to  con  the  studious  page, 

To  ponder  vnih.  a  deeper  glance 

Each  passing  deed  and  circumstance: 

And  sometimes  to  their  halls  would  stray 

Young  men  and  maids,  from  idle  play. 

In  time  these  wandering  pilgrims  came 
To  brighten  homes  of  generous  aim, 

Responsive  to  some  high  behest; 
And  honored  thus  throughout  the  year. 
In  days  of  leisure,  hours  of  cheer, 

There  grew  in  many  a  youthful  breast 

A  Hking  for  each  gentle  guest; 
Till  finer  manners,  nobler  thought, 
A  grace  and  culture,  thus  were  taught. 

One  home  whose  portals  open  flew 

Whene'er  these  pilgrims  came. 
Whose  honored  seats  the  master  drew 

Beside  the  hearth's  bright  flame. 
Sent  forth  to  other  homes  the  ray 
Whose  light  still  broadens  unto  day. 
There  Learning,  Truth,  Philosophy, 

A  cordial  greeting  found. 
With  converse  flowing  free; 
The  pulse  to  quicker  life  was  stirred, 
Thought  flashed,  and  flew  the  winged  word: 
And  deep  discourse  went  round. 
175 


Alas!  for  us  the  fires  no  longer  glow 
Upon  that  hearthstone;    friendship's  joy  is  fled; 
Swift  to  salute  us  comes  no  welcoming  voice, 
No  hastening  footsteps,  with  the  well-known 
tread. 
At  eve  no  more  do  favored  loiterers  sit. 

By  love  detained,  around  the  shining  board, 
WTiile  queenly  mistress,  'mid  the  play  of  wit. 
Rules  the  bright  feast,   and  adds  the  trenchant 

word. 
The  tones  are  hushed  that  bade  our  hearts  rejoice. 

The  shafts  of  wit  are  sped; 
And  strangers  o'er  the  threshold  come  and  go. 
Nor  heed,  nor  know 

Where  linger  mute  reminders  of  the  dead. 

Trained  in  that  household,   which  fond   memory 

sees 
As  erst  the  happy  home  of  lettered  ease, 
Two  almoners  extend  a  willing  hand 
To  bless  for  aye  the  pilgrim-band. 
They  bid  their  feet  no  longer  roam. 
But  here  to  find  a  lasting  home :  — 
One  free  to  all;  since  none  may  stay 
The  fiood  where  minds  their  thirst  would  slake : 
The  power  that  would  exclusion  make, 

And  raise  a  bar  to  keep  away 
The  poorest  lad  from  Learning's  shelf,  — 

To  youthful  Burns  and  Shakespeare  say, 
176 


"  No  boys  with  neither  friends  nor  pelf 
Have  entrance  here;  the  books  are  ours," 
Would  dwarf  a  soul's  expanding  powers. 
Would  rob  the  world,  and  rob  itself! 

To  sire  and  matron  long  revered 

This  fitting  monument  is  reared; 

And  brighter  filial  love  shall  shine 

When  burning  here  on  Learning's  shrine. 

Brother  and  sister,  side  by  side, 

Have  come  to  ope  the  portals  wide; 

They  greet  these  wanderers,  —  now  no  more 

Stray  exiles  on  a  friendless  shore. 

We  see  them  pass,  and  give  them  cheer, 

These  pilgrims  loved  for  many  a  year; 

Who  shall  not  honor  them,  who  sees 

Their  stately  dwelling  'mid  the  trees? 

Ah !  Learning,  Truth,  and  Poesy, 
You  now  are  hosts,  the  guests  are  we! 
Well  may  you  turn  to  bless  the  hands 

Which  give  such  largess  from  their  store; 
His  soul,  which  all  your  dower  expands, 

Can  tender  you  no  more. 
Than  when  he  plans  with  patient  care 
Your  home  within  this  temple  fair. 

For  her,  so  loved,  —  we  know  her  well; 
The  half  nor  you  nor  I  may  tell; 
To  me  a  pleasure,  her,  a  pain, 
177 


To  voice  the  praise  our  hearts  contain. 
I  sometimes  think,  when  her  I  find 
So  gay  and  brave,  so  true  and  kind, 
'T  is  RosaUnd  herself  again 
Come  back  to  solace  mortal  men ! 

Full  many  a  sorrow  added  to  its  own, 
And  many  a  joy,  the  scholar's  heart  has  known, 
Seeking  for  wisdom  in  the  world  of  books. 
How  cold  and  dead,  to  outward  vision,  looks 

The  volume  known  to  fame ! 
Yet  smouldering  fire  and  blasts  of  quickening  strength 
Wait  in  its  pages,  leaping  forth,  at  length, 

To  touch  the  soul  responsive  to  its  flame. 

And  if,  in  future  years,  some  idling  youth, 
For  whom  the  shop,  the  anvil,  and  the  plough 
Have  no  enticing  call,  —  if  such  as  he. 

Startled  by  words  of  truth 
Within  these  alcoves  slumbering  even  now, 
Shall  find  at  last  his  prisoned  soul  set  free, 
His  heart  no  longer  mute, 
And  striking  then  the  poet's  quivering  lute. 
Shall  waken  melodies  of  wondrous  power. 
Unheard  till  that  glad  hour; 
And,  in  immortal  verse. 
Which  years  to  come  and  nations  shall  rehearse, 

—  So  sweet  the  matchless  strains,  — 
Picture  for  aye  these  level  intervales, 

178 


The  sandy,  pine-dark  plains. 
The  palisaded  bluffs,  the  impetuous  stream, 
The  granite  ledges,  and  the  chestnut  woods. 
With  charm  that  never  fails: 

Or,  in  impassioned  dream, 
Which  takes  no  note  of  nature's  solitudes. 
Reveal  the  spirit's  moods. 

The  same  in  every  age  and  every  clime; 
Voice  the  keen  agony  that  Sorrow  knows 
When  fates,  relentless,  deal  their  cruel  blows: 
Sing  of  Love's  flame,  and  Hope's  bright  rhapsody, 

And  soaring  Faith  sublime; 
To  minds  untaught  a  quicker  life  impart, 
From  ignorance  set  free; 

With  trust  in  heaven  sustain  the  sinking  heart; 
Teach  wealth  with  poverty  its  goods  to  share; 
For  scorn,  send  pity;   courage,  for  despair. 
Till  the  brave  carol  dry  the  sufferer's  tear. 
The  friendless  toiler  cheer, 
And,  sweeping  on  with  accent  deep  and  strong. 
Arouse  the  world  to  lessen  human  wrong,  — 

If  this  the  poet's  mission,  this  his  song. 
Who  will  not  deem  the  voice  divinely  given,  — 
A  seraph  pleading  from  the  courts  of  heaven? 

When  such  a  singer,  from  some  humble  home 
In  happy  years  to  come, 
A  spell  of  genius  o'er  the  land  shall  cast. 
And  crown  the  city  with  his  splendid  fame, 
179 


His  townsmen,  reckoning  sordid  gain  and  loss 
And  hoarded  stores  of  generations  past. 
May  prize  their  wealth,  but  count  it  all  as  dross 
Matched  with  the  proud  possession  of  his  name ! 

And  if  no  honor  come,  nor  wealth,  nor  power. 

The  while  he  lives, 
He  will  not  lack  his  life's  sufficient  dower. 

The  cheer  which  comfort  gives. 
Nature  shall  solace  him  with  beauty  born 

His  finer  sense  to  feed; 
The  clouds  his  chariot,  and  the  wind  of  morn 

His  coursing  steed. 
And  when  he  pines  for  converse  sweet  and  high. 

Unrecognized,  forlorn, 
Apollo's  self,  descending  from  the  sky. 

Shall  bear  him  on 
To  join  the  Muses  where  they  sit  and  sing, 

A  happy  band,  by  Helicon's  bright  spring. 

But  should  no  kingly  bard,  from  Heaven  sent. 

With  glimmering  beauty  deck  the  common  fields. 
Forever  from  these  walls,  with  influence  unspent, 

Will    flow    the    blessed    power    which    knowledge 
wields; 
The  sweet  humanities  can  never  roam 

To  leave  your  borders;  agencies  divine, 
Blessing  the  farm-house  and  the  city  home, 

These  books  shall  prove,  to  strengthen  and  refine. 
180 


And  loftier  purpose  shall  their  pages  preach, 
Luring  mankind  to  live  a  braver  life; 

A  true  philanthropy  these  halls  will  teach, 
Calling  our  youth  from  wealth's  ignoble  strife, 

And  saying,  —  Fortune  is  a  sacred  trust : 

Use  it  to  make  men  wise,  and  merciful  and  just! 

Then  men  shall  see  that  all  the  outward  realm. 
Whose  charms  material  our  senses  hold. 
Is  but  the  shadow,  lustreless  and  cold; 
That  thought,  and  spirit,  and  the  soul's  ideal 
Are  life's  strong  pilots,  sitting  at  the  helm. 
Bearing  us  on,  through  Error's  passing  shows, 
To  what  alone  is  absolute  and  real,  — 
The  final  verities  which  Heaven  knows! 


181 


MISSION  OF  THE   MODERN   CHURCH 

Who  walks  to-day  across  the  desert  lands 
Of  far  Baalbec,  sees,  flashing  in  the  sun, 

Great  shafts  of  marble,  set  in  whirling  sands; 
Whose  lofty  capitals,  when  day  is  done, 

Bear  to  the  light  their  crowns  of  sculptured  stone, 

Ruins  of  some  proud  temple  overthrown. 

No  dome  above  them  nearer  than  the  sky; 

No  walls  more  solid  than  the  viewless  air; 
Shattered  beneath,  their  gleaming  arches  lie; 

And  where  broad  steps  preserve  the  polished  stair. 
Once  swept  by  crowds,  a  few  lone  pilgrims  tread, 
With  echoing  feet,  the  pavements  of  the  dead. 

Some  Moslem  rage  had  scathed  the  pillared  plain, 
Or  curse  of  Heaven  entailed  a  slower  doom; 

Till  none  toiled  thither,  save  the  camel-train 

That  passed  with  ventures  from  the  Tyrian  loom, 

Or  startled  Arab,  roving  from  his  band; 

Whose  wondering  eyes  their  vast  proportions  scanned. 

What  splendid  city  once  was  centred  there. 
What  race  it  held,  to  what  protecting  god 

Written  by  invitation  of  the  Unitarian  Church  of  Concord,  New 
Hampshire;  and  read  there  October  1,  1879,  at  a  service  held  within 
the  church,  for  the  dedication  of  a  new  chapel  attached  to  its  walls. 

182 


Rose  the  grand  temple,  so  supremely  fair 

When  festal  throngs  its  stately  porches  trod. 
And  shaming  time  and  fate  in  its  decay, 
Let  vagrant  winds  and  doubtful  rumor  say! 

Thine,  great  Apollo,  is  the  sacred  name 

These  pillars  bear,  —  the  Temple  of  the  Sun ! 

Thine  was  the  altar  and  the  altar's  flame! 
And  now,  of  all  thy  worshippers,  not  one 

Lives  to  invoke  thine  oracle  divine. 

No  priest  adores  thee  at  thy  crumbling  shrine ! 

Yet  long  as  ruined  fanes  shall  crown  the  steep 
By  eastern  shores,  the  traveller  will  turn 

To  ponder  there  the  problems  that  still  keep 
Their  old  significance;  for  faith  will  burn, 

And  human  hearts  with  love  responsive  beat 

Where  once  religion  held  her  honored  seat. 

Where  grief  had  come  to  lay  its  burden  down. 

Where  heavenly  longing  sighed  its  rapturous  breath. 

Where  faith,  in  visions,  saw  the  victor's  crown 
Awaiting  chastened  spirits  after  death,  — 

There  has  the  spot,  where  Error  lived  and  died. 

By  man's  deep  reverence  been  sanctified. 

Who  scorns  the  past  knows  not  its  priceless  dower; 

Nor  what  inheritance  of  deed  and  thought 
Hath  made  the  fulness  of  the  present  hour, 

183 


And  all  its  sweet  associations  wrought, 
Till  life  were  beggared  and  the  world  forlorn 
If  once  the  treasures  of  the  past  were  gone. 

Scholar  and  poet,  Christian  though  they  be, 
StUl  worship  in  the  Temple  of  the  Sun; 

Apollo  lives,  the  god  of  Poesy; 

Each  day  on  high  his  shining  course  is  run 

Through  flashing  skies;  and  bright  Aurora  waits 

His  glorious  coming  at  her  purple  gates. 

O'er  shadowy  peaks  at  night,  when  winds  are  laid, 
Dian  still  guides  afar  the  moonlit  chase; 

Pan  wanders  piping  down  the  forest  glade 

To  troops  of  listening  fauns;  with  dreadful  face 

Jove  hurls  his  thunder  where  the  tempest  raves, 

And  Neptune  calms  the  tumult  of  the  waves. 

The  dead  religion  peoples  with  its  brood 

Of  airy  folk  the  universe  we  see; 
It  left  its  sea-nymphs  gliding  in  the  flood. 

Hid  laughing  dryads  in  the  rustling  tree. 
And  wrote  on  starlit  spaces  of  the  air 
Immortal  tragedies  of  love's  despair. 

Thus  hath  it  clothed  with  human  interest 
Th'  insensate  life  of  tree  and  star  and  flower; 

Given  a  human  soul  to  bird  and  beast. 

And  wrought  our  alien  hearts,  with  such  sweet  power, 
184 


To  sympathy  vrith  all  the  voiceless  kmd 
That  common  ties  our  kindred  natures  bind. 

For  this,  as  for  that  matchless  art  of  thine, 
That  wrought  a  \'ision  of  thy  gods  in  stone, 

Till,  by  the  sculptor's  chisel  made  di\ane. 
They  bear  immortal  life  on  earth  alone. 

The  poet's  heart  must  reverence  thy  dust, 

O  faith  of  Greece!  —  the  Christian  shall  be  just. 

This  Grecian  faith  the  conquering  Roman  gave 
To  Syrian  cities;  and  in  turn  received 

From  one  small  province  he  had  made  his  slave. 
Far  on  the  Syrian  coast,  the  faith  believed 

By  Europe's  every  race  that  built  its  home 

On  lands  dismembered  from  barbaric  Rome. 

A  faith  of  many  creeds,  —  as  prophets  saw. 
Through  lapsing  virtues  of  the  elder  church. 

Some  clearer  revelations  of  God's  law. 
And  won  disciples  in  their  earnest  search; 

Till  sects  unnumbered  sought  the  Christian  fold. 

Bringing  new  dogmas  to  replace  the  old. 

Alike  in  this,  —  a  reverent  assent 

To  faith  in  one  Creator,  good  and  wise, 

In  Christ,  its  founder,  as  divinely  sent 
To  lift  men's  souls  to  nobler  destinies,  — 

Till  all  shall  join  in  one  great  brotherhood. 

Each  life  a  labor  for  the  common  good. 
185 


From  these  according  truths  how  widely  stray- 
All  lesser  tenets  where  the  mind  is  free! 

From  doctrines  preached  where  papal  Rome  has  sway. 
To  bold  dissenter's  latest  heresy; 

While  mild  Religion,  under  every  guise, 

Blends  cold  belief  with  lo\'ing  sympathies. 

No  ancient  system  of  belief  we  hold. 

Though  truths  like  ours  the  early  fathers  taught; 
For  scarcely  yet  a  hundred  years  have  rolled 

Since  Channing's  birth;  and  his  the  ripened  thought 
That  gave  New  England,  from  her  bondage  free, 
A  nobler  faith  and  larger  liberty. 

No  mighty  minsters  rise  beyond  the  seas 
To  lift  our  creed  on  their  emblazoned  walls; 

No  vestured  choirs  chant  their  litanies 

Within  the  simple  courts  where  Reason  calls 

Her  clear-eyed  children  to  adore  the  might 

Of  Him  whose  bounty  grants  us  life  and  light. 

His  name  we  frame  not  in  our  paltry  speech; 

No  finite  thought  can  comprehend  His  powers; 
Nature  and  man.  His  own  creations,  teach 

WTiat  laws  are  His,  what  obligations  ours. 
We  read  His  greatness  in  the  vaulted  skies, 
The  earth  reveals  Him  bounteous  and  wise. 

A  trust  in  man  must  follow  faith  in  God, 
Since  nothing  human  is,  but  all  di\'ine. 
186 


Man's  soul  from  its  Creator  came  endowed 

With  love  of  right;  and  Heaven  will  not  consign 
An  erring  child  to  woe,  with  frowning  face, 
Unless  appeased  by  interceding  grace. 

The  church  we  honor  frees  the  fettered  mind 
From  ancient  bonds  of  ignorance  and  sin; 

The  good  it  covets  is  for  all  mankind; 

It  seeks  no  Heaven  which  others  may  not  win; 

Content  with  man  its  every  bliss  to  share. 

Or  with  him  sink  to  pitiless  despair. 

It  says  to  human  thought,  —  No  slave  art  thou. 
Vassal  of  church  or  state!  pursue  thy  way 

Free  as  the  air  that  sweeps  the  mountain's  brow! 
All  realms  are  thine  to  enter  and  survey. 

Thou  seekest  Truth;  the  Church  must  bow  to  her. 

Religion's  self  her  humblest  w^orshipper. 

It  says  to  science,  —  God's  recorded  word 

Was  not  entrusted  unto  man  alone; 
The  story  of  creation,  still  unheard. 

Lies  writ  on  tablets  of  unquarried  stone; 
Thine  to  decipher  earth's  embedded  scroll. 
But  ours  to  seek  therein  th'  indwelling  soul! 

Such  the  belief  these  sacred  walls  have  heard. 

Preached  by  brave  souls  for  many  steadfast  years. 
What  tender  memories  the  hour  has  stirred 
187 


In  hearts  that  listen !  what  resistless  tears 
Well  forth  at  visions  of  the  loved  of  yore 
Whose  clasping  hands  may  greet  us  nevermore ! 

The  li^dng  meet  here,  but  not  they  alone; 

Up  the  long  aisle,  with  noiseless  footsteps,  tread 
A  shadowy  throng,  from  realms  to  us  unknown,  — 

Grave,  aged  men,  now  numbered  with  the  dead. 
Fair  maids,  and  smiling  children  with  sweet  eyes. 
Who  left  these  courts  for  worship  in  the  skies. 

The  very  air  seems  dreaming  of  the  past; 

It  thrills  again  to  silvery  cadences 
From  lips  now  mute;  it  feels  the  organ-blast. 

Bearing  aloft  sonorous  harmonies 
Forever  hushed;  and  from  departed  hours 
Steals  the  faint  breath  of  blooming  altar-flowers. 

Yet  look  not  to  the  past!  the  future  waits 
For  help  of  thine;  her  pleading  orphans  come 

.Soon  to  confront  thee  at  thy  open  gates, 

O  mother  church!  —  hast  thou  for  them  a  home? 

The  heavy-laden  turn  to  thee  for  rest; 

Clasp  Sorrow's  children  to  thy  pitying  breast ! 

Maintain  thy  sacred  trust !  while  others  seek 
The  favor  of  the  great,  be  this  thy  pride,  — 

Against  the  many,  valiant  words  to  speak 
For  truths  unpopular  and  rights  denied. 
188 


Boast  that  the  friendless  love  thy  service  best, 
That  with  thee  walk  the  poor  and  the  opprest ! 

Let  the  dear  saints  you  canonize  be  they 
Who  for  religious  freedom  lived  and  died; 

Who  sought,  by  labors  for  mankind,  to  stay 
Grief's  bitter  flood,  and  Error's  whelming  tide; 

In  whatsoever  church  or  land  or  time, 

They  held  their  course  with  fortitude  sublime. 

Thy  prophets  they  who  in  the  darkling  east 
Saw  freedom's  dawn,  and  led  the  world  to  see,  ■ 

The  Greek  philosopher  and  English  priest, 
Italian  friar,  and  German  monk,  and  he 

Who  trod  Judea's  fields,  —  and  all  who  brought 

A  clearer  vision  to  man's  struggling  thought. 

O  modern  church!  to  thine  own  self  be  true! 

Live  not  content  with  thine  heroic  past. 
So  long  as  labor  waits  for  thee  to  do! 

Nor  deem  thy  crown  has  come  to  thee  at  last! 
Truth  still  pleads  barefoot  at  the  convent  gate, 
While  Error  sits  enthroned  amid  the  great. 

When  time  shall  see  thee  mumbling  o'er  a  creed. 
Praying  within  thy  pale  for  faith,  not  light. 

Thine  eyes  averted  from  thy  brother's  need, 
A  craven  champion  of  imperilled  right,  — 

Then,  from  thy  tottering  temple  Truth  shall  fly 

To  wider  limits  and  a  freer  sky ! 
189 


PRINCE  HENRY  OF  PORTUGAL 
THE   NA^^GATOR 

IN    COMMEMORATION    OF    THE   FIVE-HUNDREDTH 
ANNIVERSAET    OF   HIS   BIRTH 

Five  hundred  years;  and  yet  on  earth 
We  note  the  day  that  gave  him  birth 

In  lands  afar; 
The  stainless  prince,  —  he  lives  again, 
As  pure  of  soul,  as  brave,  as  when 
He  moved  a  leader  among  men, 

Their  guiding  star. 

His  mother's  worth,  his  father's  fame 
Summon  the  boy  to  nobler  aim 

Than  courts  inspire; 
High  thoughts  his  youthful  dreams  control; 
From  war's  assaults  his  ardent  soul 
Turns  to  pursue  a  loftier  goal. 

His  life's  desire. 

Read  in  Boston,  March  4,  1894,  at  a  public  meeting  held  by  the 
Castilian  Club,  in  honor  of  this  noble  and  enlightened  son  of  a 
Portuguese  king. 

Prince  Henry,  born  in  Oporto,  March  4,  1394,  was,  through  his 
mother,  great-grandson  of  Edward  III  of  England;  and  it  was  the 
widow  of  one  of  his  captains,  and  the  possessor  of  some  of  his 
maritime  charts,  who  became  the  wife  of  Columbus. 

190 


A  thirst  for  wisdom  in  his  heart, 
A  proud  resolve  to  bear  his  part 

With  men  renowned, 
He  seeks  to  benefit  his  race. 
To  give  his  land  an  honored  place,  — 
And  o'er  unfathomed  seas  to  trace 

The  horizon's  bound. 

No  princely  revenues  he  spends 
On  idle  pomp,  for  petty  ends, 

Or  selfish  gain; 
Of  frugal  life,  his  wealth  he  pours 
To  lift  the  veil  from  hidden  shores. 
To  round  the  farthest  cape,  where  roars 

The  trackless  main. 

His  science  frames  the  guiding  chart. 
He  trains  the  captains  for  their  part; 

The  ships  obey; 
Onward  they  sail  at  his  behest. 
Knowledge  and  light  their  only  quest, 
WTiile  Heaven  he  asks,  with  reverent  breast, 

To  lead  the  way. 

He  loves  the  raging  winds  that  sweep 
His  venturous  fleets  across  the  deep 
Toward  distant  lands ! 
No  music  like  the  smiting  oar, 
The  cordage  strained,  the  surges'  roar, 
191 


The  shout  of  sailors  far  from  shore, 
The  shrill  commands. 

For  palace  floors,  the  grating  sand; 
His  roof,  the  cloudy  spaces  fanned 

By  freshening  gales; 
The  sun-burnt  crew  his  courtiers  all; 
The  stars  his  counsellors;  the  call 
Of  boatswain's  piping,  and  the  fall 

Of  shivering  sails,  — 

These  are  his  minstrels;  his  acclaim 
When  savage  races  speak  his  name 

And  learn  his  art. 
With  single  purpose,  high  and  pure, 
No  failures  daunt,  nor  doubts  obscure; 
To  science  wed,  no  loves  allure 

His  constant  heart. 

High  on  the  storm-swept,  barren  cape, 
'Mid  spray  and  mist,  a  gallant  shape, 

I  see  him  stand. 
Shading  his  eyes,  if  yet  there  be 
Far  southward,  on  the  gleaming  sea. 
The  speck  that  tells  his  argosy 

Returns  to  land. 

No  snowy  sails  can  shine  so  fair. 
No  laden  caravels  can  bear 
192 


So  rich  a  prize, 
As  when,  half-wrecked,  with  spHntered  mast, 
His  shattered  fleet  comes  home  at  last. 
To  tell  of  limits  overpassed 

And  widening  skies. 

Such  the  good  prince  whose  science  gave 
To  seamen  power  to  cross  the  wave 

In  years  to  come. 
Their  ships  another  world  shall  trace. 
The  while  he  joins  his  father's  race 
And  makes  with  them  his  dwelling  place 

His  lasting  home. 

I  stood,  a  pilgrim  by  their  tomb. 
Where  all  the  chapel's  storied  gloom 

Their  lives  recall : 
O'er  pillared  arch  and  fretted  stone 
The  windows'  lofty  splendors  shone. 
With  flecks  of  molten  color  thrown 

On  floor  and  wall. 

The  victor-king,  in  martial  pride. 
Dreams  still  of  war,  his  queen  beside. 

And  smiles  intent; 
Lord  of  a  realm  by  valor  won. 
His  temple  reared,  his  labors  done, 
The  sceptre  passing  to  his  son. 

He  sleeps  content. 
193 


His  noble  queen,  beneath  the  light 
Where  leopards  tell  of  England's  might, 

Forgets  her  throne. 
Her  native  land;  for  what  to  her 
Are  thoughts  of  haughty  Lancaster 
Or  Lisbon's  state?     Her  pulses  stir 

To  clasp  her  own: 

From  battle-field  and  Moorish  plain 
The  five  brave  sons  have  come  again, 

Her  call  to  heed; 
King  Duarte,  weary  of  his  crown; 
Pedro,  his  pilgrims'  staff  laid  down; 
Henry  and  John;  of  sad  renown, 

Her  captive,  freed. 

All  save  the  exiled  Isabel, 

The  only  daughter,  loved  so  well. 

Who  rests,  at  last. 
Where  Burgundy's  proud  lords  repose; 
Herself  at  peace  or  ere  she  knows 
Her  son  lies  slain  amid  his  foes, 

His  triumphs  past. 

Batalha,  home  where  heroes  sleep, 
Long  may  your  sheltering  bosom  keep 

Its  priceless  dust! 
There  still  shall  slumber  side  by  side. 
This  royal  house,  a  nation's  pride, 
194 


To  tell  how  princes  lived  and  died, 
High-souled  and  just. 

Five  hundred  years  are  but  a  day 
When  Honor  summons  such  as  they 

To  deathless  fame. 
And  long  as  ocean's  current  pours 
Past  Sagres  Cape  and  Afric's  shores, 
Madeira  and  the  bright  Azores, 
Shall  Memory  keep  amid  her  stores 

Prince  Henry's  name. 


195 


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